What He Wants
by Little Red Hood
Summary: When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."
1. Come Home

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating:** T just to be safe.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Jamie Lloyd or Michael Myers and make no monetary profit from this story.

**Author's Note:** I had hoped to have the next chapter of my story "Stolen Innocence" ready to put up in time for Halloween, but due to my computer behaving badly, that ain't gonna happen. However, thanks to a marathon viewing of Halloween 4 and 5 a few days ago, I was inspired to write this. There may be one or two chapters after this one this one since the plot bunnies have been hopping. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter One**

_When you assume you make an ass out of u and me._

**-Old Proverb**

**|O|**

"Leave me alone!"

Jamie Lloyd lay on the cold floor of the schoolhouse, aching all over from having tumbled down the stairs. She was alone, defenseless, and in too much pain to stand up, much less run away. Showing no sign of having heard her, the masked killer descended the staircase, taking each step in a leisurely, measured pace that made him appear to be almost floating. Crying hysterically, the little girl started dragging herself across the floor, moving by mere inches. She didn't want to die, not like this, killed by her own uncle for no clear reason. She sobbed as footsteps echoed off the hard floor close behind her.

A hand clamped down hard on her right leg. She screamed as her uncle pulled her to him, then lifted her bodily off the floor. Dangling in his grasp by one leg, Jamie desperately began beating Michael's chest with her small fists, landing pathetic blows that probably wouldn't have knocked a three-legged poodle over. With his true expression unreadable behind the ghoulish mask, Jamie could only stare up at her uncle's pale face from an uncomfortable, dizzying angle as his head slowly tilted to one side, almost as though he were examining her. A moment passed in which he did nothing but look at her, then he reached out for her with his other hand and Jamie braced herself for death, her overactive imagination supplying her with vivid images of how he might end her life.

_He's going to snap my neck he's going to crush my skull he's going to rip my head off I don't want it to hurt oh please God don't let it hurt!_

But the intense pain she'd expected never came. Instead, something quite different happened.

Anyone who knew Jamie Lloyd well could vouch for the fact that she has very sensitive skin. To provoke a fit of uncontrolled laughter all you had to do was poke a few key areas on her body. The backs of her knees were prime, Her belly and ribs were deluxe.

But the real gem lay in the soft, tender area underneath her arms, the precise area that her uncle was touching now.

Jamie couldn't stop the giggle from bursting out. It sounded completely out of place in the deserted schoolhouse, right in the middle of this life-or-death situation where she was literally being held at the mercy of her killer uncle. Michael cocked his head to the side again as he observed her reaction. He poked her again in the same place inside her left armpit, and when more giggles pealed forth with a sound like little bells, he began wiggling his large finger back and forth against the magic spot.

Jamie wasn't sure if she was laughing or crying. All she knew was that there were strange little noises coming out of her mouth that were midway between gasps and shrieks. Her arm felt as though a million bugs with tiny, delicate legs were dancing a merry jig all over it. And Michael wasn't letting up, apparently quite pleased with this development. Keeping a firm grip on her leg, he began running the thumb of his free hand over her previously neglected right armpit. Jamie's hair braid swung like a pendulum as she tried to twist away but Michael's remorseless tickling thumb followed her, and her only coherent thought during all of it was that this was a really weird way to die.

After what felt like an eternity of over stimulated nerves, Michael slowly lowered her back to the floor. Breathing in quick, hiccupping gasps, Jamie sat on the floor and stared up at the man towering over her, his bulky frame looming over her like a mountain.

"What was that for?" The question burst out before it could be properly edited by her frightened, confused brain. She hurried to fill in the uncomfortable silence that followed. "I mean, I liked it better than being killed but I don't...I don't understand what you want."

His only answer was deep, heavy breathing as he crouched down to get at eye level with her. Scared, Jamie sat across from him, unable to move or speak. She gulped as he extended his hand.

"Get away from her!"

Everything around Jamie was suddenly obscured by white smoke. Her uncle disappeared in the hazy fog. Looking around wildly, Jamie could barely make out Rachel spraying a fire extinguisher at the place where her uncle had just been. Jamie got up from the floor and took a few shaky steps, then had to cover her mouth to keep from coughing., as the acrid smoke stung her eyes and made hr throat itch.

"Jamie, come toward me!" Rachel shouted.

"I can't see you!"

"I'm here!"

The entire hallway was shrouded in drifting white smoke, making it impossible to distinguish one shadow from another. Jamie flailed her arms about like a blind person, taking cautious steps forward while listening for Rachel's voice.

"I'm right here." A warm, reassuringly familiar hand closed around Jamie's. The little girl looked up to see her sister's face emerge from the whiteness.

"C'mon, let's get out..."

Rachel was cut off mid sentence as a dark shape materialized out of the thick smoke behind her. She was yanked roughly backwards, away from little Jamie, and into the lethal embrace of Michael Myers. She struggled desperately, but his arms were around her, trapping her like a steel cage. One big arm held Rachel in place, pinning her against his chest, while the other laid the butcher knife against her exposed throat, preparing to drag it across in a fatal slice.

"Please! Please don't kill her!"Jamie threw herself on the floor before her uncle, hoping with all her heart that some part of his humanity would emerge and make him listen to her.

His head jerking in what Jamie took to be surprise, Michael stared down at his little niece and, after a moment, slowly removed the knife from Rachel's throat. Without letting go of his victim, he flipped the knife over in his hand so that the handle was facing out, then cracked it hard across the back of Rachel's skull. She slumped in his arms, unconscious, and Michael let her drop unceremoniously to the floor.

It was just the two of them again. Jamie sat on her knees with her hands folded together, tears still trickling down her plump little cheeks. Her uncle stood over her, doing nothing but breathing and staring.

"I want to go home," she moaned, her quavering voice small and pleading.

Before she even had time to blink, Jamie was lifted into the air and slung over her uncle's shoulder. He began carrying her away, with one arm locked across her legs so she wouldn't fall. All she could see was the tiled floor speeding by below her along with the backs of his legs as he walked.

"Wh-where are you taking me?"

|O|

To the Myers house.

Jamie had only ever seen the place from the outside, and even then from a distance. Her mother-her real mother Laurie-had forbade her to go anywhere near it. It didn't look very frightening from the outside, with its whitewashed, ordinary front porch, drab gray siding, and large front windows. It looked like every other house on Lampkin Lane.

It was what might be lurking inside that was frightening.

Jamie held her breath as her uncle carried her up the narrow steps to the front door. Hinges squeaked as he pushed the door open and she was taken beyond the threshold. Was this where he was planning to kill her?

Jamie's view as she was carried through the house was mostly limited to the bare floors, but she did see enough to know that there were still pieces of old furniture lying about, mostly tables and chairs either shoved into corners or up against walls. A brick fireplace with a metal grate adorned one wall in what had probably once been the living room. A spiral staircase led up to the second floor and, as Jamie craned her neck around, she saw her uncle put his foot on the first step. He was taking her upstairs. The realization made her shiver, dread spreading like a cold wave all over her body.

When they reached the top of the staircase, Jamie saw they were in a long hallway with doors branching off to either side. Candles had been placed on shelves along the walls, which put forth a spooky, intermittent glow. She could make out a few pictures mounted on the walls but they all looked to have shattered frames, making the pictures inside hard to see.

Jamie still hung like a wet sack from her uncle's shoulder, unmoving and tense, as he carried her into one of the rooms. Judging from the warm light, candles had been strategically placed in here also. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath Michael's feet as he paced the length of the floor. He was heading toward something on the far side of the room, something that Jamie couldn't make out from her position hanging off his back but which had to surrounded by candles. As they got closer, the flickering light got brighter.

_This is it,_ she thought. _This is really it. _

Jamie felt Michael shift her weight around, and suddenly found herself cradled in his arms with his right arm beneath her back and the other below her knees. Her heart hammered in her chest as she gazed up at him, his masked face unreadable and ghostly in the dim light. He seemed to be thinking hard about something, studying her face as if she held the answer to some riddle he'd been trying to solve for a long, long time.

Jamie looked away from him, unable to take his scrutinizing gaze for more than a minute, and saw that the thing they were standing before was just a plain old wooden rocking chair. Tall, waxy white candles had been placed on shelves around and above the chair, giving it the mysterious aura of a throne.

Finally, her uncle stepped forward, then sat down in the chair, keeping her in his arms. She lay across his lap as he began to rock her in a slow, soothing pace.

Jamie's wide, hazel eyes never left his ebony black ones as she tried to speak. Confused and bewildered thoughts flew through her mind. This wasn't what she'd expected. Was he going to kill her or not?

After several failed attempts which consisted of hr opening her mouth only to balk at the last minute, she finally managed to ask the question.

"You're not going to kill me?"

He shook his head.

"You never were?"

Another head shake.

Her sigh of relief turned into an angry pout. "But why did you kill all those people?" she asked, hurt and confused. Her voice broke as she started to cry, remembering her poor, dead dog.. "Why did you kill Sundae?"

From her position on his lap, Jamie felt his chest expand as he sucked in a lungful of air, then heard it gust out of him in a soft sigh. She saw him raise and lower his shoulders in an awkward shrug, as if to say it had all seemed like a good idea at the time.

Everything was far too complicated for her childish mind to even begin to understand. The deaths she'd seen, the terror she'd felt, the strange, alien man that had killed without mercy and who now held her gently in his arms. It was all too much. Her head slumped against his chest as she shut her eyes, trying to block out the scary, incomprehensible chaos that had become her life. She heard her uncle's heartbeat-Rachel would be surprised to know that he had one-and felt him start to toy with the long braid trailing down her back. The ambient candlelight, the creaking of the rocking chair, Michael's steady breathing, it all combined to lull her into a tentative half-sleep.

"MICHAEL!"

Jamie was startled into wakefulness by the sudden shout. She looked up, and saw Sam Loomis standing before them, his mouth agape, the revolver clutched unsteadily in his burnt hands. Stunned disbelief trailed off him like a cloud.

Jamie felt her uncle's body stiffen as he reached for the handle of the knife that was sticking out of one of the pockets of his uniform.

"Stay back! I don't want him to hurt you!" she cried to Dr. Loomis, and began whispering to her uncle in a low, calming voice that she hoped would soothe Michael and keep the old man alive.

Sam watched, unable to believe what he was seeing, as Michael stayed in place but kept his arms wrapped protectively around the little girl. He took in his surroundings, the rocking chair, the adorable little girl sitting on the deranged killer's lap. And he started to laugh. He laughed until hot tears spurted from his eyes and steamed down his face so that he had to draw a handkerchief from his coat pocket to wipe them away. All this time, he'd assumed Michael had been hunting Jamie down to kill her!

"Well, I should know by now never to assume anything when it concerns you, Michael."

|O|

"As long as Michael has the girl, Haddonfield is safe."

They were all gathered around Sheriff Meekers desk at the police station. Sam Loomis, with the slightly crazed demeanor of a man who'd just seen the face of God. Rachel Carruthers, bruised and bloody but still strong. Richard and Darlene Carruthers, both looking shaken by the events that had transpired while they were out having a peaceful dinner. And Sheriff Meeker who, along with being tired, dirty, and confused, looked very, very pissed.

After taking a long drag on his cigarette, Meeker picked up a phone, "You say he's at the Myers house. I'll send a team over there right away to take him out."

"No!" Loomis, Darlene, and Richard all said at the same time. Darlene wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and looked imploringly at Loomis. "He has our little girl in that house!"

"And that's where she'll have to stay." Loomis said with finality. Hobbling over to Darlene, he knelt down in front of her. Looking unflinchingly into her distraught, teary eyes he said softly, "I believe she'll be all right."

"You don't know that!" shouted Rachel, who'd been reclining in a swivel chair close to her parents. She ran her fingers through her curly red hair, picking out a few twigs and a dead leaf, souvenirs from when she'd fallen off the roof during that crazy escape attempt from Michael. ff it hadn't been for the recent rain they'd had softening up the ground, that fall would've killed her. She remembered how frantic she'd been when she'd woken up and couldn't find Jamie. The bell ringing at the schoolhouse had been the only clue she'd had as to the little girl's whereabouts. When she'd gotten there and had seen that maniac about to grab her sister, she'd tried to stop him.

She'd failed miserably, and now this bald-headed moron just wanted to hand Jamie over to her insane uncle. It made Rachel furious!

Loomis spoke to the angry girl in soft tones that he hoped would calm her, "Rachel, I saw them together. He had Jamie in his arms and wasn't hurting her at all."

"So?"

He raised his voice to address the entire group, "Michael Myers is Jamie's only living biological relative. Had things been different, she would've gone to live with him after Laurie died. And I'm certain Michael knows that."

"Meaning?"

"In his mind, she belongs to him. That's why he killed anyone who tried to keep him away from her. And if we take her from him now, he won't rest until he finds her. The madness will start all over again!"

Rachel still wasn't convinced. "But what if he gets bored at playing the good Uncle and kills her. Or hurts her by accident?"

"I'll be watching them. I won't let anything happen to her." Loomis said.

Meeker stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray and fixed Loomis with a hard stare, "If the townspeople find out they're living there, they'll surround that house with torches and pitchforks."

"Which is why we have to keep it a secret." Loomis shot a pleading look at each and every one of them. "We must!"

"And how long do you think we can do that?" Meeker asked, skepticism plain in his voice.

"For as long as we can."

|O|

Jamie Lloyd stood at one of the few windows in the house that wasn't boarded up and stared out at the deserted street, mentally reviewing her life. She had a family, a mommy and daddy who'd loved her. Then they'd died, their bodies mangled beyond recognition in a car accident. Eventually she'd been adopted by a new family, and although they weren't the mommy and daddy she cried for at night, they were kind and loved her as though she'd always been their daughter.

Now she'd been adopted again, by an uncle she'd never met and who wasn't kind at all. Worse, Jamie wasn't sure if he loved her. She wasn't sure if he _could _love her.

Would she be happy here?

She didn't know.

A strong hand fell upon her shoulder, pulling her away from the window, and Jamie didn't resist.


	2. Bedtime Story

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating: **T just to be safe.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Jamie Lloyd or Michael Myers. I don't own The Brothers Grimm or Snow White either. Damn shame.

**Author's Note: **Anyone else think Halloween 4 and 5 are hard to watch all the way through, knowing how Jamie's life goes to hell in a handbasket? Couldn't anything good have ever happened to the poor girl? Guess that's why we have fanfiction.

**Chapter Two**

_Most people forget that the very oldest stories are, sooner or later, about blood._

**-Terry Pratchett, "Hogfather"**

**|O|**

The first night Jamie spent in her uncle's house had been terrifying. He'd carried her into one of the upstairs bedrooms - from the size of it had probably been his parent's room - and had dumped her on an old double-wide bed. The blankets were threadbare, with gaping holes in several places likely made by gnawing rats, and the mattress was old and uncomfortable. A few candles were lit, held in ornate sconces on the walls, and dust covered everything, rising in little puffs at the slightest movement. To her surprise,Jamie had noticed a carved wooden bookshelf shoved to one side of the room, which still held a few books. Resting her head on the feather pillows, she had tried to make herself comfortable on the hard bed when she felt the mattress dip, and had looked up to see her uncle sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her intently.

Jamie was bone-tired, exhausted from running, and had a sore throat from screaming all night. If she had been in any other bed she would have fallen immediately unconscious. But knowing that her mentally unstable and capable-of-killing-anything-that-moved uncle was sitting less than a foot away, almost on top of her, no doubt still with a blood-spattered butcher knife securely tucked away somewhere in his uniform, well, that knowledge made it very difficult for her to get to sleep, despite her heroic efforts to block it from her mind.

_He won't hurt me he just wants me to stay with him he won't hurt me he just wants me to stay with him..._

That became her mantra, repeated over and over again until, after what seemed like several hours, she finally drifted into a light sleep. Her dreams were filled with images of pale-faced little clowns in blue suits and orange pom-pom buttons, with black holes for eyes and bright red lipstick smeared all over mouths that were fixed in wicked, demonic grins, marching through her hometown and waving around plastic bananas that morphed into giant knives dripping with gore.

She woke up about an hour later still thinking Haddonfield was being invaded by an army of killer demon clowns. In the midst of sorting out the dream world from the real one, she received a nasty surprise when she rolled over and saw her uncle, still sitting in the same spot on the bed, watching her with his head cocked in that odd, birdlike way of his.

_Why is he doing that? _Jamie wondered. _It's like he can't stop looking at me_. It had taken another hour before she'd managed to fall back asleep.

Little Jamie didn't know it at the time but that was to become their nightly routine. Michael would put her to bed, then spend the entire night just watching her sleep. The first few nights of this unwelcome silent vigilance were the worst. Jamie hardly got any sleep at all, too busy worrying about whether or not she would wake up again the next morning. By the fourth night, Jamie knew what to expect, and anyway was too overcome by sleep deprivation to really care if her uncle watched her all night or not.

Tonight, Jamie awoke from a deep sleep that was blessedly clown-free to find that something had changed. Something large and heavy was wrapped around her, nearly pinning her to the bed. Turning her head while straining to see in the flickering, half-lit room, she saw her uncle laying next to her in the bed, with one big arm draped snugly across her shoulders. His breath rose and fell, each exhalation producing a slight, almost inaudible rumble that Jamie identified as a snore.

Learning that her fearsome uncle, the terror of Haddonfield, snored caused Jamie to hastily slap a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into semi-hysterical laughter.

**|O|**

"Has he hurt you at all?"

Rachel's worried face was framed in one of the large windows in what used to be the main living room of the Myers house. Jamie had scooted an old stool over to the dirty, cracked windowpane and, after a few frantic moments spent fumbling with the latch, had uttered a happy cry as she'd flung her arms around Rachel's neck. Now she was thoroughly engaged in a secret conversation with her foster sister, feeling nervous and fearful and just a tad mischievous. After all, Uncle had never specifically said that she couldn't talk to her other kept their voices low, not wanting to attract Michael's attention. Jamie had slipped away from her uncle as he was prowling around upstairs, relighting the candles that had burned out. Even though Michael was relatively calm when around his niece, both girls knew that it would be better all around if they didn't get caught. As a result, their conversation was rushed and to the point.

"No. No, he's been really...nice."

"Nice, huh?" Rachel arched one eyebrow as her lips formed a wry smile. "Nice" wasn't a word she would ever have thought would be mentioned in reference to Michael Myers. She reached through the window and brushed away a few strands of loose hair that had fallen into Jamie's eyes. "Are you still scared of him?"

"Sometimes." Jamie admitted, leaning her cheek against Rachel's hand as her big sister traced soothing patterns over her face.

"You don't have to stay with him."

"Yes, I do." Jamie replied, shaking her head as Rachel opened her mouth to object. "If I run away he'll start killing people again and he'll never stop."

Rachel sighed, unhappiness and worry plainly visible in the dark circles around her eyes and her fritzed-out, disheveled hair. She didn't trust Michael and thought Sam Loomis and Sheriff Meeker both needed their heads examined for agreeing to give a maniac like him custody of a defenseless seven-year old.

_If he hurts her at all, I'll kill him. I'll find a way. _

"Here." She reached through the window and passed Jamie a bundle of blankets, all folded and freshly washed. "Thought you might need these. There's gonna be snow tonight, and this house doesn't have any heat."

"Thanks, Rachel." Jamie beamed at her older sister, the corners of her mouth curving up in a sweet smile. It felt good to know that Rachel still cared and was looking out for her. Considering that the teenage girl had been pretty much indifferent to her existence when Darlene and Richard had first brought her into their house when she was a emotionally fragile, moody six-year old orphan, their relationship had come a long way.

Jamie was about to ask Rachel how their Mom and Dad were dealing with the situation when she heard the thump of heavy boots coming down the staircase. "He's coming! You have to go!"

Rachel squeezed her little sister's hand, "I love you. Don't get yourself killed." Then she tore herself away from the window and began walking quickly away, taking quick glances around to make sure she wasn't being followed.

Jamie barely had time to pull the window and latch it before she heard her uncle's step behind her. She hopped off the stool with the pile of blankets in her arms and saw him standing just a few feet away. He seemed tense, more rigid than usual. Jamie's heart began to beat faster as she wondered if her uncle knew what she'd been doing. Trembling as a chill run up her spine, she thought it very likely that he'd been watching them the whole time.

Michael did nothing, evidently waiting for her to make the first move. She thought about lying, saying she'd just been looking out the window, but that wouldn't explain where all the blankets had come from. And even the most competent, manipulative, conniving liar in the world would have a hard time pulling one off underneath her Uncle Michael's intimidating stare, and Jamie was none of these.

"I...um...I was-" It was no use. She cracked like an egg.

"I-I-I was talking to R-Rachel," she stammered, feeling her face grow hot. Rushing to explain further, she showed him the blankets, "She gave me these, cause it's supposed to snow tonight and she didn't want me to get cold."

Michael stared at her a moment longer, then turned away, apparently satisfied with this explanation. Jamie thought her lungs would burst from the strain of her heartfelt sigh of relief.

**|O|**

Rachel had been right about the weather. Soon after the sun had gone down so had the temperature, plunging into the lower twenties. Outside, the wind was howling, , bending the nearby trees so that their branches scraped against the roof and rattling the windows. Small drafts wafted through every unprotected chink in the walls they could find, which meant that the temperature inside the house was only slightly higher than what it was outside. In short, the place was freezing.

Jamie lay in bed with her long hair spread across the pillow, huddling beneath the mountain of blankets Rachel had given her. She'd been delighted to find her favorite pair of fuzzy pink P.J's folded in among the blankets - she'd have to remember to thank her big sister later for that unexpected gift - and so was feeling warm, cozy, and relatively happy. Sometimes her uncle would snuck into town during the day to find food for her, which meant he cared enough not to let her starve, which in turn gave Jamie hope that she might survive living with him. Now Uncle Michael sat in his usual spot on the edge of the bed, watching her, wearing just his usual outfit of blue mechanics suit and creepy mask. He didn't seem to feel the cold at all. Every time an icy draft blew in through a crack in the drywall next to Jamie's bed, fluttering the candle flames and sending ripples of shadow throughout the room, her skin would break out in goosebumps. while Michael didn't so much as shiver.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked timidly. He cocked his head, a quirk that Jamie was beginning to realize meant that he question confused him.

Jamie sighed, realizing that it had been a pretty dumb thing to ask. Her uncle could get shot several times and not feel a thing, so why should the cold bother him? She rolled over and tried to go to sleep.

But the rattling windows, the shrieking wind, and the creaking of the old house made it hard for little Jamie to nod off. She tried fluffing the pillows, counting sheep, pretending she was in her old bedroom next door to Rachel's, but none of it worked and Jamie tossed and turned until she finally gave up. Jamie felt her uncle's eyes on her the whole time, and wondered what he was thinking.

Laying on her back gazing up at him, she decided she might as well ask him, "Why do you watch me all night?"

No answer. She sighed. Having a conversation with this man was like hitting golf balls into the vacuum of deep space. Still, she kept trying.

"My mommy Laurie used to read me bedtime stories when I couldn't sleep." She saw him tense up, and wondered if it had been a bad idea to mention her mother. Hadn't he tried to kill her? Jamie couldn't stop herself from cringing and burying herself deeper beneath the blankets as he stood up. Holding the covers up to her chin so that only her eyes were exposed, she tracked her uncle as he glided across the room and, to her surprise, stopped at the small bookshelf in the corner. Retrieving a book, he returned to the bed, and after sitting down, handed it to her.

Jamie held the book in both hands, surprised at how heavy it was. The title _Grimm Fairy Tales_ was written in flowing gold script on the tattered dust jacket, which beautifully depicted the green stem of a blood-red rose twining over the cover, its emerald leaves contrasting with the tiny black thorns that looked so real Jamie could almost feel them pricking her fingers. As lonely as she was, Jamie flashed a sweet smile in her uncle's direction, surprised and delighted that he'd have something like this in his house.

Upon opening the book, she glanced through the table of contents and picked out several familiar fairy tales; _Little Red Riding Hood, Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty_, ,until she found her favorite.

"I like this one." She turned to the chapter titled _Snow White_ and The Seven Dwarves and held it up so her uncle could see. "I've seen the Disney movie lots of times."

Michael gazed down at the book, then back at his niece. He seemed curious, but he didn't try to take the book from her. Jamie frowned and her eyes got misty as she realized this wasn't going to work. Her uncle couldn't read her a bedtime story. Well, he probably could read, but he never talked. So if she wanted a bedtime story, she'd have to read it herself. She sighed and started to read quietly.

_Once upon a time ..._

Despite his size, Michael was perfectly capable of moving in absolute silence, so Jamie didn't notice until it was too late that her uncle had lain down next to her and was looking over her shoulder as she read. Upon feeling his breath so close to her neck, Jamie finally did look over her shoulder and nearly tumbled off the edge of the bed when her nose came millimeters away from her uncle's pale, rubbery, shadow-eyed face.

After swallowing her heart back down from where it felt as though it had gotten lodged in her throat, she squeaked out, "You want to hear it, too?"

He nodded.

So, after taking a deep, calming breath, she began to read aloud.

_Once upon a time in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window-frame. _

_Soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called Little Snow White. And when the child was born, the queen died._

Jamie closed her eyes as that last line tugged painfully at her heart. She missed her real mommy so much right now! Her voice cracked the tiniest bit as she continued reading.

_After a year had passed the king took to himself another wife. She was a beautiful woman, but proud and haughty, and she could not bear that anyone else should surpass her in beauty. She had a wonderful looking-glass, and when she stood in front of it and looked at herself in it, and said, looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all._

_The looking-glass answered, thou, o queen, art the fairest of all._

_Then she was satisfied, for she knew that the looking-glass spoke the truth. _

_But snow-white was growing up, and grew more and more beautiful, and when she was seven years old she was as beautiful as the day, and more beautiful than the queen herself. And once when the queen asked her loo_king-glass, looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this _land is the fairest of all. _

_Thou art fairer than all who are here, lady queen. But more beautiful still is snow-white, as I ween. _

_Then the queen was shocked, and turned yellow and green with envy. From that hour, whenever she looked at snow-white, her heart heaved in her breast, she hated the girl so much. And envy and pride grew higher and higher in her heart like a weed, so that she had no peace day or night. She called a huntsman, and said, take the child away into the forest. I will no longer have her in my sight. Kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token. _

Jamie's brown eyes widened. She'd known about the queen sending the hunter to kill Snow White but had never heard anything about the queen wanting him to bring back Snow White's heart. She gulped, disturbed by the dark tone the story had taken.

A look from her uncle prompted her to go on, although a little more hesitantly than before.

_The huntsman obeyed, and took her away but when he had drawn his knife, and was about to pierce snow-white's innocent heart, she began to weep, and said, ah dear huntsman, leave me my life. I will run away into the wild forest, and never come home again. _

_And as she was so beautiful the huntsman had pity on her and said, "Run away, then, you poor child. The wild beasts will soon have devoured you," thought he, and yet it seemed as if a stone had been rolled from his heart since it was no longer needful for him to kill her. And as a young boar just then came running by he stabbed it, and cut out its heart and took it to the Queen as proof that the child was dead. The cook had to salt this, and the wicked Queen ate it, and thought she had eaten the heart of Snow White._

Jamie winced, disturbed by the sickening image. A squeamish child, it had always been a supreme test of her seven-year old willpower just to get a plate of green beans down. The thought of eating someone else's heart made her stomach shrivel. Wondering if she looked as nauseated as she felt, she glanced up at her uncle who, as far as she could tell, was oblivious to her distress and was thoroughly engrossed in the story. She thought maybe reading this had been a mistake. Her uncle was a murderer, after all. What if it gave him ideas?

The next few chapters weren't so bad. Snow White meets the Seven Dwarves and they agree to take care of her if she cooks and cleans for them. If Jamie were a little older she might consider that arrangement sexist, but since she was only a child it wouldn't occur to her to question gender roles until much, much later. Eventually, the queen finds out Snow White is alive and - after disguising herself as a harmless old woman - tries to kill Snow White not just once, but three separate times. The first attempt involved the queen lacing Snow White's dress so tight that the poor girl couldn't breathe, but the dwarves find her in time and wake her up. The second try has the queen brushing Snow White's hair with a poisoned comb, but that doesn't work either. Finally, the queen offers Snow White the fatal apple, and after taking one bite, she dies.

Jamie kept on reading, occasionally sneaking furtive glances up at her uncle. It was impossible to tell what he really thought of it all but he did seem to listen very intently as Jamie described the glass casket the dwarves made for Snow White, the reason being that they thought Snow White was much too beautiful to be buried. The thought of a dead body laying forever in a transparent casket above the ground made Jamie's skin crawl, but that was nothing compared to the chills she got upon reading the last paragraph, wherein the newly revived-by-a-kiss Snow White invites the queen to her wedding with the handsome prince.

_Then the wicked woman uttered a curse, and was so wretched, so utterly wretched, that she knew not what to do. At first she would not go to the wedding at all, but she had no peace, and must go to see the young Queen. And when she went in she knew Snow-white; and she stood still with rage and fear, and could not stir. But iron slippers had already been put upon the fire, and they were brought in with tongs, and set before her. Then she was forced to put on the red-hot shoes, and dance until she dropped down dead._

Jamie closed the book with a snap. That had been much, much darker than the Disney cartoon. She handed the book back to Michael, who subsequently pushed it off the bed and onto the cold floor. He dark eyes never left Jamie, who was now uncomfortably aware of how close they were, with their shoulders practically touching. Sure, she'd sat in his lap before and he hadn't hurt her, but he was still scary, unpredictable, and much, much bigger than she was.

"Um...did you like it?" she asked nervously.

He responded by scooping Jamie up beneath his arm, forcing her closer until her head lay against his chest. Startled, the little girl released the breath she'd been holding in a nervous giggle."I guess you did."

Jamie had no choice but to spend that night cuddled up next to her uncle, with the wind howling outside and hundreds of candles throwing flickering light upon the walls. It might have been more peaceful if she hadn't known the inhuman things her uncle was capable of, or if the bedtime story had actually made her sleepy. Instead her mind was filled with salted hearts, glass coffins, and women dancing in burning shoes till their bodies collapsed from exhaustion.

**|O|**

**Author's Note:**Yes, folks, all that lovely stuff is in the original Grimm version of Snow White! Here's to the Brothers Grimm, teaching little children valuable lessons of infanticide, cannibalism, and vengeance served in red- hot shoes! Anyway, I'm not real sure if I like how this chappie turned out. Ah well, seemed like a good idea at the time.


	3. Snow Day

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating:** T just to be safe.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters of Jamie Lloyd or Michael Myers.

**Chapter Three**

_A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.  
_**-Carl Reiner**

**[O]**

A pair of hazel eyes blinked once, twice, three times as the owner of those eyes slowly emerged from a deep, uneasy sleep. Jamie raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a yawn, as she uncurled from the fetal position she'd taken sometime during the night. Stiff sheets rustled around her as the little girl stretched her legs while taking care not to bump against the person laying beside her. The strong smell of burning wax tickled her nose, bringing forth a quick sneeze. Pieces of what had transpired the previous night came back to her, materializing from the dim fog that was her waking mind.

_Oh, I'm still here. With him._

A strange combination of sorrow and happiness gripped her as her brain caught up with the world around her and she took in her surroundings. Sorrow, because she wasn't in her normal home with Rachel, Richard, and Darlene who were going on with their blissfully mundane lives, or at least she hoped they were doing that. And happiness, because in spite of his scary, mysterious nature, her uncle was turning out to be not so bad, at least not to her. He hadn't given any sign that he didn't like her or didn't want her around. Before he'd left her here, Dr. Loomis had even said something like, "You may be able to succeed where I failed, to reach whatever humanity your uncle has left." Jamie wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to do that but, so far, things were going well. And she really did want to help him, since he was part of her family. Her real family.

Rolling over brought her almost nose to nose with Michael, who was still fast asleep.

"Uncle?" she whispered. He didn't move. The corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile.

_Now I can watch him sleep!_

She studied his face or, more accurately, the mask covering his face. When she'd gone shopping for a Halloween mask with Rachel, she'd seen him standing behind her - or at least she thought she had, she still wasn't sure if that encounter had been real or a dream - and she'd watched him put the monster face over his real one. Peering through the black eyeholes as her uncle slept, Jamie could faintly make out thick eyelashes and the tiniest hint of bare skin around them. So there was a man's face under there, but she would probably never see it. Unless...

Her fingers traveled downward until they came to the point on her uncle's neck where the mask stopped, then took hold and began pulling up. A few more inches of skin was revealed. A thrill raced through her, quickening her she brave enough to try it?

_No._

Jamie was curious - oh yes, very curious! - to see her uncle's face, but she was also smart enough to know when she would be flirting with death. Her uncle might be more tolerant of her than other people, who usually wound up impaled on the wrong end of his knife. Still, that didn't mean he was willing to reveal everything. at least not right away, so taking his mask off without permission just might get her killed. Jamie could understand, somewhat. It had taken her months to open up to the Carruthers, as well as a good deal of patience on their part. But Loomis had also left her this warning, "Never forget, Jamie, your uncle is a dangerous man. Don't do anything that might anger him. I wouldn't even consider leaving you here if I didn't trust your judgement."

Sighing, she let her hand drop back to her side. There was nothing to do except wait for him to wake up. Or was there?

It took a moment of gentle shoving to get out from under his arm, which he'd thrown over her in sleep. After pulling back the covers, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and winced as her bare feet came in contact with the cold wooden floor. She made a mental note to ask Rachel to bring her fuzzy Mickey Mouse slippers next time. Glancing behind to make sure her uncle was still asleep, she padded out into the hallway, excited to finally be able to explore the house without Michael looking over her shoulder.

There were three other bedrooms besides the one they slept in. The first two faced each other on opposite sides while the third was at the very end of the hall. Most of the candles in the hallway had burned out, so Jamie relied on light spilling from the open door of the room she shared with her uncle, along with the occasional sliver of daylight that filtered in through the boarded up windows. A casual look inside the first two rooms told her all three rooms were unfurnished, whatever luxuries that had once been in them most likely sold or destroyed. The smallest room - the one down at the end - was the most interesting., since it was the first place Michael had brought her after he'd abducted her from the schoolhouse.

Though the only source of light came from a single sunbeam spearing through a chink between two heavy boards covering the space where the window should have been,, Jamie could make out pale blue wallpaper crumbling off at the slightest touch, the tiny particles swirling in the air to form a thin blue haze that gave the room an eerie sheen as if it were sneezed several times as the dust got in her nose. The rocking chair was still there, along with the remains of the candles he'd surrounded it with. It was the only piece of furniture in the room and looked as though it had been there since the house was built. The armrests were gnarled and cracked from age. If varnish had ever been applied to the wood, it had flaked off long ago, leaving ugly rough patches. It looked, Jamie thought, like the type of chair someone's grandmother might sit in.

She wondered about her uncle's grandmother - her great-great-grandmother. What had she been like? It saddened Jamie to think that she'd probably never know. She hadn't even known her own grandparents. They'd all died before she'd even been born.

Turning to go, Jamie felt her bare foot brush against something on the floor. She bent down to pick it up, and was astonished to discover it was a child's pacifier, one the plastic things you stick in a baby's mouth when it wants something to suck on. This one had clearly been chewed well back in its day, judging from all the tiny teethmarks. Why would something like this be lying around here?

_Could this have been a baby's room?_

Excited by her discovery, Jamie did a more thorough inspection of the surrounding area. She threw open the only closet, but found it completely empty. She examined the floors, walls, and even the shelves holding the candles, but found nothing but dust and cobwebs.

Sighing, Jamie laid the pacifier on a shelf, wedging it between two candles. With no further clues, she'd have to ask her uncle whose room this had been.

_Maybe later. _

The house was still creepily silent as Jamie went downstairs, so much so that when one of the steps creaked, the little girl jumped in fright. Catching her breath, she continued descending the stairs, taking each step slowly, deliberately, concentrating on making as little noise as possible. Her baggy pink pajamas flapped loosely on her arms and legs. They did a decent job of shielding her skin from the cold air, but even so. she would have to get dressed soon. She had a stash of clothes crammed under the bed upstairs, which meant she would have to go back up there sometime. Which also meant she would have to face her uncle, but for right now, she was enjoying her time alone.

Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, her feet automatically carried her to the clear window where she and her big sister sometimes held rushed conversations. Disappointed to find no Rachel looking in from the other side of the glass, she was nevertheless excited to see an unusual amount of brightness shining in from outside. She ran over to the window, pressed her face up against the cold surface, and was delighted to see the ground covered in drifts of thick white snow. The evergreen trees up and down Lampkin Lane were frosted with a thin layer of glowing white, as well as the roofs of the nearby houses. Tiny snowflakes still spun lazily through the morning air. Just looking at the all the beauty made some the tension that had built up over the last few days drain out of Jamie like water through a sieve.

The moment ended when a calloused hand clamped down hard on her left shoulder. She was jerked backwards, spun around so fast she nearly fell, then shoved up against a wall by Uncle Michael, whose expression - even hidden behind the neutrality of the mask - looked absolutely furious.

Jamie's heart began rabbiting in her chest. Though it went contrary to his nature, Uncle Michael always held back from getting violent with her, ever since Halloween night when he'd hacked his way through Haddonfield trying to find her. Now his hands were getting uncomfortably close to her throat and his fingers were digging painfully into her skin. His breathing was heavy and ominous.

All the terror she'd experienced the night she'd first met her Uncle Boogeyman came flooding back in a sickening wave of deja-vous and Jamie started crying. "Uncle Michael, please don't hurt me!"

His grip on her eased off ever so slightly as he cocked his head, peering thoughtfully down at the shaking little girl. After a few more tense seconds, he took his hands off his niece's shoulders, placed a finger under her chin and tilted it upwards to make her look at him. She sniffled.

He pointed at the window, then back at Jamie. She thought hard, straining her brain to figure out what he was trying to tell her.

She thought she had it. She'd been snooping around the house without him, looking out a window that could easily be opened to the outside, whereas all the doors in and out were kept locked at all times. What other conclusion would her possessive, protective, borderline-psychotic Uncle Michael draw from that except...

"You thought," she paused to wipe away a tear. "You thought I was going to run away?"

He nodded.

Jamie was surprised by how much this admission hurt. Didn't he trust her? The only reason she was here was because he supposedly wanted her here, not to mention the likelihood that he'd massacre the whole town if she left him!

"I wasn't going to run away!" Her voice came out soft and trembling, but carried a touch of defiance. "I was just looking at the snow." Struggling to put on a cheerful smile, she grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him to the window. "See, Uncle? Isn't it pretty?"

Of course she hadn't expected him to talk, but she'd been hoping to see some sign that he agreed with her; a tilt of the head, a nod, a curious gleam within the mask's eyeholes. Instead, he stared out at the whiteness briefly, then turned away, dismissing the snow as he would an annoying fly.

"Don't you like snow?"

No response.

Jamie felt her spirits sink like tennis shoes into playground mud after a hard rain. Plastering a smile on her face, she returned his cold stare, asking hopefully, "Can we go outside?"

The question seemed to startle him, and for a split second she thought he might nod, or do something to indicate when he did make a move, it was a vigorous headshake. No.

Jamie gave it one last try, "Please?"

His fists clenched, and Jamie took that as her cue to drop the subject.

"Okay," she muttered sadly.

She let her uncle guide her back upstairs, where she spent the rest of the morning curled up in bed reading more of the Grimm Fairytales and half-heartedly eating the food Michael brought up for her. When she changed out of her pajamas, she could see dark purple bruises Michael's hands had left on her shoulders; they hurt whenever her clothes brushed against them. Though she tried to fight it, the anger and depression she'd bravely managed to bottle up inside now demanded to be felt. She didn't deserve this, trapped in a derelict house with a crazy uncle who wanted to lock her away and refused to even let her go out to play in the snow. Her friends at school were probably out enjoying their snow day, throwing snowballs, sledding, and all the other fun stuff that she wasn't able to do anymore. She missed Rachel, she missed her mother, she missed her life.

Grabbing one of the pillows strewn across the bed, hugged it to her chest, and began to cry, unaware of an indistinct shape standing in the doorway, watching her.

{O]

Michael listened to his niece's sobs, confused and a little angry. For once in his life, he was trying - _really trying _- to act human, and from the sound of it, was failing miserably.

He stepped back from the doorway out into deeper shadow, but the heartwrenching cries still followed him. Unable to take it anymore, he turned and headed back downstairs. This wasn't turning out the way he'd wanted it.

Ten years spent lying in a coma had taken some of the rage out of him. Some, but not all. He could still kill, though the act didn't thrill him the same way as it once had. In fact, thinking about some things he'd done in the past now nauseated him, like when he'd killed and eaten that dog in 1978. If he ever thought of it - which he tried not to do often - he could taste the salty, blood-soaked meat in his mouth, which resulted in uncomfortable sensations in his stomach. This new squeamishness surprised him, since he couldn't ever remember being hesitant to do whatever he needed to do to survive. Indeed, the rage - wherever it had come from - seemed to have receded with time, but certain things evidently still had the ability to trigger it. Like hearing that his young niece, the last member of his family alive, had been sent to live with random strangers instead of given to him. He supposed that killing one sister and trying to kill the other had had everything to do with the court's decision to hide her. Still, she was his niece, and no doctors, sheriffs, or trigger-happy rednecks would or could have stopped him from finding her.

Killing the child had never been part of his plan. That idiot Loomis had gotten involved, gotten the police out looking for him, which had made getting to Jamie more dangerous than it should've been. He still hadn't forgiven Rachel Carruthers - the one Jamie seemed to love so much - for putting his niece's life in danger up on that damned rooftop. If he hadn't taken hold of the rope, his little girl most likely would've been killed.

But everything had been worth it. Little Jamie fascinated him. She reminded him of what he'd been like before the madness had taken him, before he'd killed his sister, before he'd become the Boogeyman.

And this morning, for an unforgivable, irretrievable instant, he'd lost control and nearly hurt her. She'd just been staring out a window and he'd thought...he'd assumed...

He stomped downstairs. His fists clenched so tightly that his ragged fingernails dug into his palms, bringing up warm beads of blood along with a stinging pain that he barely noticed. Once he'd entered the living room, he sat down in an old wickerback chair and surveyed the ruins of what had once been the busiest room in the house: where he had sat on the couch by himself - or occasionally with his parents - watching TV, where baby Laurie was allowed to crawl around on the handmade rug with the ugly green and blue stripes, where his big sister would throw her textbooks on the table and do her homework while complaining the entire time.

Those days were gone now, and would never come back. He was standing in the remains of a life that felt like a dream, not even sure if he was the one who had dreamed it or if it had been someone else.

Slowly, he got up from the chair and walked to the window where Jamie had been. The snow outside looked at least knee-deep. He'd never found the stuff all that interesting before, in fact, it kind of irritated him since it made the ground slippery. But he'd decided he did want to get out of the house, away from all the inconvenient memories. And if his niece thought there was something special about snow, then he wanted to know what it was.

[O]

Jamie was awoken from the light doze she'd fallen into by a gentle poke in the middle of her back. Trying to ignore it, she buried her tearstained face in a pillow, but when it came again, more insistently this time, she looked over her shoulder to see Michael leaning over the side of the bed. He held something up in his right hand that, when Jamie's eyes finally focused, looked suspiciously like a coat.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice slurring just the tiniest bit. She wasn't sure yet if she was awake or still dreaming.

In an act that might have been fueled by either playfulness or impatience, her uncle threw the coat right at her. It hit her full in the face, the impact of which helped tremendously in waking her up. After she'd untangled herself, she held the coat out in front of her and saw that it was made of gray denim, with a fur-lined hood at the back. The implication behind it reached her, and she finally looked at her uncle's impassive white face.

"We're going out?" she asked, a little disbelievingly.

He nodded.

Feeling glad that she'd bothered to change into a warm sweater and pants earlier, she hurriedly put the coat on. It was too big for her, her hands were lost inside the sleeves and the hem trailed behind her like a cape. She had to spend a few moments rolling up the sleeves and tying it around her waist so she wouldn't get tripped up when she walked. A weird feeling that she'd seen this particular coat somewhere before came over her, and she started wondering if it was one of Rachel's coats that her uncle had somehow stolen.

She decided not to worry about that now.

"I'm ready," she chirped

Her uncle took her by the hand, led her out the back door and followed a snow-covered path that meandered between the trees and on into the surrounding forest. Occasionally, they were forced to stop and hide behind the trees as groups of people wandered past, the snowy cold making them oblivious to their surroundings in their haste to get home. Jamie had often wondered why so many people failed to see her uncle when he often stood out in plain sight. The trick, it turned out, was just knowing when and where to hide. Sometimes, just turning his head away would be enough to divert unwanted attention. It left Jamie feeling awestruck and a little jealous.

_Why can't I do that?_

Eventually, her uncle let go of her hand as they stopped on a hill that was far enough away from the neighborhood they stood little chance of being spotted. The trees were sparser here, their leafless branches dipped almost to the ground underneath a two-inch layer of glittering snow . Dime-sized snowflakes would occasionally spiral down in short bursts from fat gray clouds overhead and, whenever the breeze would rise from a gentle rustling of air to a harsh gust, white mist rose up from the ground and swirled around them like ghosts. Jamie could feel the ice cold wind through the fabric of her coat and her nose was already starting to run. Michael either didn't feel the cold or didn't care; he simply stood in one spot, as still and silent as one of the trees. He cocked his head at Jamie, as if to say I brought you out here, now what?

Jamie suddenly felt nervous. Her uncle seemed to be waiting for her to show him something special. "Um...do you want me to teach you how to make a snowman?"

He tilted his head to the other side, which Jamie decided was a silent affirmative. She dropped down into the snow and started scooping handfuls of it into a small ball, or at least into a vaguely circular shape. She tried to forget about the pair of enigmatic black eyes watching her, focusing more on just having fun in the snow. Once the base of the snowman was finished, she made two more smaller balls. It took several tries before Jamie got the head packed down so that it wouldn't keep sliding off the midsection. Jamie shot a glance at her uncle while during one of these accidental decapitations, and imagined that he looked somewhat amused.

"See?" she said as she wedged in a pair of black rocks she'd dug up to represent the snowman's eyes. As she took a step back to survey her handiwork, Jamie had to admit it wasn't the prettiest snowman she'd ever made. Her uncle, however, studied it from every angle, circling it, poking it, and at one point going into one of the pockets of his uniform, pulling out a knife, and plunging it up to the hilt in the snowman's middle. He stepped back from his handiwork, admiring his own personal touch, then looked over at Jamie for her approval.

"Um, yeah, I guess you could do that," said Jamie, a bit unsure. Though he was trying really hard to control his violent impulses, they were still coming out in unexpected ways.

_Or maybe he just has a weird sense of humo_r, Jamie thought, shaking her head. .

Jamie leaned against a tree and watched as her uncle bend down and began scooping snow into his hands. She wondered if he'd ever been in a snowball fight. He'd been a child once too, right?

"When I was little, my daddy and I would go out in the backyard after it snowed and have huge snowball fights. They were fun,"she told him as he continued to push the snow into a pile. He glanced up at Jamie, then went back to work, taking several minutes to pack as much snow as possible into his hands.

"What are you doing?" she asked. His only response was to raise a finger to his lips.

The snowball got bigger.

When Michael finally got up off the ground, he held in his hands what had to be the biggest snowball Jamie had ever seen. Snowboulder would be a more appropriate name for the massive white lump of freezing coldness that Michael was slowly, majestically, raising over his head. In a detached corner of her mind, Jamie wondered if her uncle would get frostbite from handling so much snow.

"You're not really going to throw that at me, are you?" The little girl took a nervous step back, bracing herself for what, if it came, would be the equivalent of an avalanche. She closed her eyes.

WHUMP!

As the breeze died down and the ice chips stopped falling, Jamie opened her eyes. Apart from a light dusting, the mountain of snow had missed her, gone sailing overhead and had hit...something else.

"Uncle...what...?"

Michael pointed down the hill. Holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the glare, Jamie squinted into the distance. Something vaguely man-shaped stood down at the bottom of the hill. When her eyes adjusted, Jamie gasped as the blurry shape resolved itself into the short, balding, thoroughly drenched form of...

"Dr. Loomis?"

Her voice must've carried down the hill because she thought she saw him nod slightly, or at least the snow completely covering his face seemed to move a fraction of an inch. The poor man looked as though he'd slid down a glacier right into the mouth of the abominable snowman. She couldn't see his face clearly, but her imagination filled in the blanks. His mouth hung open, his eyes were wide, and whatever composure he had was well and truly shot to hell.

Jamie turned to her uncle. "He was following us?"

Michael nodded.

"And you knew the whole time?"

He nodded. And though she couldn't be sure, Jamie sensed that a smug smile was plastered all over the face beneath the mask, gloating.

[O]

That night, as Michael fell asleep with his little niece securely tucked under one arm, he kept seeing the aftermath of his snowball; the annoying Dr. Loomis, dripping wet, shivering, completely caught off guard for once, and decided he liked snow. Liked it very, very much.

**[O]**

**Author's Commentary:** I wanted to put a little more detail into the Myers house, since I don't like it when my characters seem to be walking around in a vacuum. So I figured I'd have Jamie go out and explore a little bit. We get a glimpse into Mikey's mind, looks like ten years worth of coma-sleep have mellowed him out some, though he can still snap if pushed too far. His complaints about the rooftop chase: I remember reading somewhere )and I can't remember exactly where) that when Rachel is lowering Jamie down from the roof Michael takes a swipe at her, which forces Rachel to let go of the rope, but then Michael grabs hold of it and so keeps Jamie from falling. I'll have to watch that scene again to be sure, but it would've been far more logical for Michael to just cut the rope if he'd really been trying to off the little girl. So I thought I'd have him gripe about that scene a little bit, since Rachel did the same thing near the end of the first chapter. And for those of you who thought Michael nailing Dr. Loomis with a giant snowball was goofy, sorry, but he and I just couldn't resist.

:)

As for whether or not Thorn is going to make an appearance, I'm still undecided about that. I'm really not sure where this story is going, right now all it is a collection of stuff I'd like to see happen between Jamie and Michael. I think that Thorn takes some of the mystery out of the Boogeyman but who knows, I might change my mind later on.


	4. Uncle Boogeyman

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating:** T to be safe. Mild cursing in this chapter but nothing too serious.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed her wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Michael Myers or Jamie Lloyd.

**Author's Note**: I hereby dedicate this chapter to the generations upon generations of wimpy kids who had to put up with being bullied at school, because I was one of them.

**Chapter Four**

_Never laugh at live dragons, Bilbo, you fool!_

**-Bilbo Baggins, "The Hobbit"**

[O]

Haddonfield Elementary is a small school in a small town, but the noise its inhabitants make at the end of the day is very big indeed. When the doors open at 3:30, swarms of chattering, laughing children are released from a day's worth of boredom and drudgery, their combined shouting, cheering voices making enough racket that neighborhood dogs howl in protest and stray cats run for cover. Groups of friends stand in circles on the sidewalks to discuss the day's gossip while waiting - hopefully not for too long - for their parents to pick them up. Other kids run to catch schoolbuses, whose giant wheels squeal as they pull out into the icy street, adding to the sounds of after-school chaos.

And then there are other, less pleasant noises. The taunting, jeering voices of young boys, directed at an even younger girl.

"Boogeyman! Boogeyman! Jamie's Uncle's the Boogeyman!"

With the strap of a pink Care Bear bookbag dangling off one shoulder, Jamie Lloyd pushed through the swinging double doors and ran out into the parking lot, pursued by her familiar group of tormentors. Running so fast caused her to slip on a patch of crusty ice that lay unmelted on the sidewalk. She went down on one knee, scraping it against the concrete, and was quickly surrounded by a gang of mocking faces, led by the worst of the worst school bullies: Kyle Ramier, Josh Farrends, and Michelle Patterson.

"Hey, Jamie! I heard your uncle paid you a visit on Halloween! Did he bring you any candy?" Kyle, always the ringleader, started in with a fresh volley of jibes.

"Yeah, he'd probably poison it!" Michelle sniggered as she flipped her red hair, always eager to follow her best friend's example.

Jamie tried to get up from her kneeling position on the ice, but her feet slid out from under her and she fell on her face, yelping as her bookbag thumped painfully against her back. Being the kind of boy who preferred to express his feelings in actions rather than words, Chris picked up a handful of snow and dumped it on Jamie's head, smearing her brown hair with streaks of cold, whiteness that resembled powdered sugar.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Jamie managed to get to her feet and shove her way through the circle of bullies, only to be followed by the old, hateful, hurtful chant/

"Jamie's mommy's a mummy! Jamie's an orphan!"

When Jamie spotted her sister's car pulling up to the curb, she flung herself in the backseat, slamming the door to block out the mocking chorus. Rachel glanced over her shoulder, giving her foster sister a concerned look.

"Jamie?"

The little girl sniffled, "I'm okay."

Rachel pulled away from the curb and eased her way out of the parking lot. Neither Rachel, nor Jamie, nor the other children ever noticed the masked shadow lurking behind the thick trunk of an oak tree on the school lawn watching everything, breathing heavily, with its clenched fists trembling in silent fury.

[O]

"Jamie, what happened back there?"

Rachel watched her sister's face in the rearview mirror as she drove, noticing the red signs of tear tracks on her pale cheeks. The lumps of snow on Jamie's head were starting to melt, which led to the little girl having to brush wet strands of loose hair out of her eyes. She raised her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "Nothing."

"Bullshit." Jamie's eyes widened, not from Rachel's use of the cussword but more from the stern tone of the older girl's voice. She only sounded like that when she was really, really angry. "How long has this been going on?"

"For a while," Jamie replied, her voice soft and hesitant.

"You mean ever since we put you into that hick school?" Rachel snapped, and Jamie knew she meant it more as a statement of fact than a question. The older girl sighed, continuing to drive in the wet slush left over from the weekend's snowstorm while keeping an eye on Jamie in the rearview mirror. "Mom and I will go have a talk with your principal tomorrow. Those kids shouldn't be allowed to do that to you."

"You will?" Jamie asked, her voice rising from surprise and a little hope.

"Of course we will, dummy! Just because..." Rachel stopped, momentarily rendered speechless from pent up anger and frustration. After taking a deep, calming breath, she forced herself to finish the sentence. "Just because your living with your Uncle Michael now doesn't mean we're going to stop looking out for you. No way." She meant it. Rachel's opinion of Michael - that he was a murdering, child stealing piece of hundred-year old pond scum - had not wavered an inch since Halloween night, despite the evidence, along with the vehement reassurances of Dr. Loomis, that Jamie was relatively happy and even growing fond of her uncle.

"That reminds me." As they came to a stoplight, Rachel leaned over, pulled something out from under her seat, and handed it to Jamie. It took a heroic effort of willpower for Jamie to keep from getting teary as she recognized the shoebox full of her mother's pictures.

"I thought you might want to hang on to those," Rachel said, glancing over her shoulder to give Jamie a quick smile. "Was I right?"

"Yeah, you were." Jamie smiled back at her sister, then frowned as a new thought came to her. "Should I show them to Uncle Michael?"

Rachel considered the question a long time before answering. "I wouldn't."

"But what if he...?"

Rachel cut her off. "Jamie, we don't know how your uncle might react. He tried to kill your mother, remember! It's probably best to just keep them to yourself right now Can you find a good hiding place for them?"

"Yeah."

"Then do it. Don't show them to him."

The girl nodded then, reaching behind her back for the bookbag, she unzipped the bag and stuffed the shoebox inside, cramming it between her Math and Science books.

"There's a car following us." Rachel snapped.

Jamie craned her neck to look out the back window. Sure enough, there was a sleek black car keeping pace with them, but at a respectable distance. It was too dark inside the car to see whoever was driving it, but Jamie didn't need to see. She knew.

"It's him."

"I can't believe Loomis got him to agree to this," Rachel muttered. Though she often suspected Dr. Sam Loomis to be just as crazy - if not crazier - than his former patient, Rachel had to admit that the man had shown serious balls in marching over to the Myers house and demanding from Michael that he let Jamie go back to school. Rachel had harassed Loomis until he'd given in and told her how that confrontation had gone down. Right when Loomis had first arrived, Michael had been standing at the top of the staircase holding Jamie in one arm and his knife in the other. Upon reflection, Rachel decided this was what saved the man's life since it would've been harder for Michael to attack while keeping hold of Jamie, plus with Jamie being there at all Michael was less likely to go for the kill. Not where she might see him do it, at any rate. Absentmindedly rubbing the back of her head, Rachel remembered how, at the schoolhouse, Michael had spared her life after Jamie begged him not to kill her. That meant there was some part of Michael that took Jamie's wishes into account.

"People are going to wonder why she isn't in school, Michael," he'd said. Michael had kept on coming down the stairs, slowly, taking his time, and at that point, Loomis had admitted he'd been worried enough to reach into the pocket of his trenchcoat and touch the loaded revolver there, just for reassurance.

The thump of Michael's bootheel seemed deafeningly loud as he/took his final step off the stairs, bringing him that much closer to Loomis. Forcing himself not to back down, Loomis had gone straight to the point. "If Jamie doesn't do the things a normal little girl is expected to do, the townspeople might become suspicious. They might turn against her."

Michael had stood there, less than a foot away from the old man, evidently considering this new information, and Jamie had taken the opportunity to whisper something in her uncle's ear. Whatever she'd said must've convinced him, because Michael had lowered the knife. Loomis had then come up with a plan for how they could send Jamie to school and afterward get her back to Michael without attracting unwanted attention.

_Some plan,_ Rachel thought cynically. _I feel like I'm in a crappy James Bond movie. _

Jamie and Rachel didn't speak for the rest of the trip back to the Carruthers house. The car tailed them the whole way, which didn't improve Rachel's mood. Jamie would have to get into that car soon, instead of going back to her real home.

When they pulled into the driveway of the Carruthers house, Rachel leaned over and hugged her little sister.

"It's okay, Rachel. I'll be okay," Jamie murmured against the older girl's curly red hair. She gave Rachel a quick peck on the cheek. "Uncle Michael loves me, I think."

"You think?" Rachel quipped, trying not to smile.

Jamie returned Rachel's weak smile with one of her own. "Yeah." The two girls stayed like that for another minute, not speaking, each taking a bit of the other's strength. Then Jamie slung her bookbag over her shoulders, hopped out of her sister's car, and headed toward the other car, which sat waiting a safe distance down the street.

Rachel sighed as she watched her sister go.

_Uncle Michael loves me, I think._

_You think?_

She thought of how Brady had died defending her and Jamie at the Meeker's house. The heroic idiot had tried to take on Michael with a shotgun, only to have his skull crushed and neck snapped. And in the end, Michael's bloody rampage had apparently turned out to be nothing but a lonely man's desperate attempt to get what was left of his family back.

She shivered.

Yes, there might be a part of Michael Myers that truly cared about little Jamie. What frightened Rachel - and kept her awake at night worrying about her sister - were his darker, nastier parts

[O]

Her uncle was quiet as they drove away from the Carruthers and headed for Lampkin Lane. Well, he was always quiet but Jamie sensed this was the sort of ominous quiet that usually precedes an ambush, a volcanic eruption or, at the very least, a really violent thunderstorm. Squirming uneasily in the passenger seat, Jamie bit her bottom lip and glanced at him out of the corner of one eye. He was tense, all right. Every muscle in his arms and back looked too tight, rigid as steel, as if he was saving all his energy for the perfect moment to let loose with his favorite knife and hack and slash and stab...

"Are you upset?" Jamie managed to squeak out, wondering whether or not she'd be quick enough to jump out of the car if it stopped moving and her uncle came at her.

He nodded.

"Was it something I did?" Huddling down in the seat, Jamie began mentally running through all the situations in which she'd have a chance of escaping alive if her serial killer uncle got angry with her. There weren't any.

The white mask swung from side to side in a vigorous headshake. Then her uncle took his right hand off the steering wheel and laid it gently on her shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly. Jamie let herself relax a little. But if he wasn't angry with her, then what was he so mad about? Her forehead tingled as a drop of water slide down from her hairline onto the bridge of her nose; she wiped it away before it could plop off her nose and into her lap. The snow that Chris had smeared in her hair was still melting. Had her uncle noticed? Leaning back into the cushioned seat, Jamie avoided her uncle's eyes and began fidgeting with the straps of her bookbag.

After what could only have been a few minutes but felt longer to Jamie. her uncle turned onto a deserted side road and parked. This was as close as they could get to the house with the car, the rest of the journey would have to be on foot. Fortunately, it wasn't far. After rolling up the windows and putting the car keys safely in his pocket, Michael opened the passenger door, undid Jamie's seatbelt, and scooped his niece up in his arms. Jamie held her bookbag close to her chest as her uncle carried her through a snow-covered field. Soon she recognized the hill where her uncle had thrown that massive snowball at Dr. Loomis and knew they were almost home.

They entered the house through the back door. Michael's boots left muddy prints on the bare wooden floors but Jamie doubted her uncle noticed or cared. The swaying motion as he walked with her in his arms was comforting, and Jamie was a little less nervous by the time her uncle sat her down in one of the straightbacked wooden chairs that were scattered haphazardly throughout the house.

Jamie let her bookbag fall to the floor, then shrugged off her coat. Michael had actually started a fire in the old fireplace, so the house was reasonably warm for once.

A large, man-shaped shadow fell over her, blocking out the light from the fireplace so that the temperature dropped by a few degrees. As she lifted her head, her eyes traveled up from her uncle's scuffed, muddy boots, to the creased, navy blue pants of his jumpsuit.. Pausing to take in a deep, fortifying gulp of air, Jamie let her vision keep going up past the collar of his shirt and let it finally rest on the ghostly mask covering his face, its wild hair sticking up in little dark spikes. She couldn't stop herself from cringing a little as he loomed over her. The fact that her uncle was so large and tall compared to her wasn't helping her to learn not to fear him. He could be intimidating, even when he wasn't trying to be.

He seemed to sense that she was nervous. So he lowered himself to the floor, getting down on his knees so she wouldn't have to crane her neck staring up at him. He placed his hands on the armrests of her chair, caging her in, and Jamie fought to resist the urge to flinch away.

He pointed at he right knee. Jamie looked, and saw a small, dark brown spot of dried blood staining the leg of her light blue pants.

If Jamie could've used swearwords like Rachel, she would have done so then. The blood from the scrape she'd gotten when she'd fallen at school had seeped through. Her uncle wanted to know how she'd been hurt.

"I fell down in the parking lot at school, " Jamie muttered as she hid her face behind her hair, "but I'm okay."

Her uncle continued to stare hard at her, and she continued to look anywhere but at him. The only sounds were Michael's deep breathing and the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace. A few uncomfortable moments passed, then her uncle stood up and simply walked away. Jamie watched his retreating back as he headed for the stairs. Then, flipping her hair out of her eyes, she tried to take her mind off what had just happened by pulling out her textbooks and starting on her homework.

[O]

Michael was not happy. He prowled through the dark bedrooms on the second floor of the house, fuming.

The mere fact that Jamie had to spend her days at school irritated him. He was perfectly capable of teaching Jamie everything she needed to know. He'd never had a scrap of formal education and yet he'd figured out how to do lots of things on his own. Learning to read had been a piece of cake. So had learning to drive, obtain food for himself, avoid people he wanted to avoid, and find the people he wanted to find. Most importantly he could teach Jamie how to defend herself in a fight and, judging by what he'd seen today, she needed that far more than history or grammar lessons.

His fists clenched at the mere thought of those bullies and what they had done to her. He knew about bullies. He'd seen the boy that Laurie had babysat back in 1978 get laughed at by a group of older kids. One of the kids had run into right into him on the sidewalk, and he'd stared at the little brat until he'd run home to his mother. But that was just a harmless prank compared to what he was going to do to the kids that had gone after _his_ Jamie.

She'd lied to him about how she'd been hurt. Well, if it wasn't technically a lie then it wasn't the whole truth either. She hadn't told him about the children that had chased her, who had caused her to fall in the parking lot. This confused him. Didn't she want them to be punished? He supposed she felt some misguided need to protect them, but why would she? It made no sense.

Well then, he wouldn't hurt them, if that wasn't what Jamie wanted. He usually didn't hurt children anyway.

Still, those brats had been hurting his little girl, teasing and tormenting her.

Something would have to be done about that.

[O]

That night, Michael lay in bed next to Jamie, stroking her hair as he watched her fall asleep. She lay on her side, facing away from him, yawning sleepily as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The afternoon had gone well. She'd finished her homework without any help - a sign that she was smart, like him! - and had talked to him for hours about school, her friends, and how her day had gone - still neglecting to mention the three bullies. Then he'd given her a Coke and a pepperoni pizza he'd stolen from a delivery boy who'd carelessly left it in the passenger seat of his truck when he'd gone inside a convenience store to get cigarettes.

As he petted Jamie's hair and her face grew soft and angelic as sleep overcame her, a feeling of peace settled over him, as though a warm, relaxing bath had been injected straight into his heart.

But it couldn't last. Not tonight.

When Michael was certain his niece was fully asleep, he leaned over and pressed his masked lips behind her ear in a gentle kiss. Then he called forth memories of the way those awful bullies had treated her. He let the memories bring back the rage.

It was time to go to work.

[O]

"Give it back!"

Sarah Ramier was a pretty, petite little blonde- haired girl who enjoyed the sort of feminine things that are expected of little girls. She liked picking flowers, especially daffodils, and putting them in vases all around her bedroom. The walls of her room were covered in light pink wallpaper, which in turn was covered in places by finished coloring-book pages of cute bunnies and kittens that were held up by clear tape. Pink bubblegum hearts were on her blankets, and the pillows were overflowing with creamy white lace. Sarah Ramier was, by and large, a dainty, prissy little woman.

And her older brother, Kyle, loved to give her hell about it.

Kyle held up the red-haired Strawberry Shortcake doll, keeping it just out of his sister's reach. "Is this thing supposed to smell like strawberries?' Holding the doll up to his nose, he took an exaggerated sniff, making sure to blow as much snot as possible onto the doll's bonnet. "Eww...she stinks! I think she needs a bath!"

Sarah's pink lips curved into a round O of horror. She knew from experience what "bath"meant.

"No! No!"

She ran after her laughing brother as he took off down the hall, but he already had a good headstart. She wasn't fast enough to catch up to him before he ducked into the bathroom.

SPLASH!

Kyle smiled meanly at his sister as she flew around the corner, pushed her brother out of the way, and went to fish her beloved doll out of the toilet.

"She smells a lot better now!" Kyle giggled.

"MOMMY!"

"What's going on up there?" An angry woman's voice shouted from downstairs.

"KYLE THREW MY DOLL IN THE TIILET!"

"She's lying!"

"AM NOT!"

"I don' want to hear this right now! Both of you get to bed!"

As a final insult, Kyle stuck his tongue out, waggling it at Sarah in a timeless display of childish mockery. "I'll get you back!" Sarah promised as she ran back to her room, cradling the wet doll in her arms.

Feeling victorious, Kyle sauntered back to his own room, where Marvel comics lay like brightly colored landmines on the dirty carpet or - very rarely - were stacked in neat piles. Star Wars and Batman posters covered every inch of available wall-space, and on top of a battered old dresser, which displayed a vast collection of G. stickers, a caged golden hamster ran mindlessly on its exercise wheel.

After getting into a pair of Spiderman pajamas, Kyle went over to the hamster cage, unlocked it, and scooped the furry creature out of its bed of wood chips. "Hey, Chewie," he murmured, scratching the soft hair behind the animal's ears. It's whiskers twitched, a sign that it was enjoying its owners attention. "You wanna snack?"

Its pink nose wiggled in anticipation as Kyle reached for the bottle of seeds behind the cage. Setting the hamster back in the wood chip nest, he unscrewed the cap, shook out a handful of seeds, and dumped them into Chewie's food bowl. The hamster scurried over to the bowl and began to happily devour its food.

Turning away from the cage, Kyle headed back out into he hallway - making sure to keep an eye out in case his little sister was planning an ambush; she was great at surprise attacks - and stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Mechanically, he squeezed the blue gel onto the end of his toothbrush and stuck it in his mouth. He let the water run in the sink as he scrubbed, then leaned over to spit the bubbles out.

Upon straightening up, he looked into the mirror above the sink and jumped in fright. A man was standing behind him. A man with a creepy white face...who was holding up a knife!

But when he spun around no one was there.

Kyle clutched at his thumping chest while sucking in huge gulps of air. He had to have imagined it. The bathroom was tiny, with absolutely nowhere to hide, and nobody could've just disappeared in the time it had taken him to turn around. Unless the man had dived into the toilet and flushed himself. Kyle giggled at the thought.

"Are you okay?" Kyle jumped as Sarah's high voice chirruped from where she stood in the doorway. "You look all weird."

"I'm fine," Kyle growled as he moved past his sister and headed back to his room.

When he got back to his room, he noticed two things upon entering. The first was that the light switch didn't work. The second was that Chewie's cage was open and the hamster was gone.

"Mom!" Kyle shouted.

"What?" The exasperated voice of Kyle's mother called from the master bedroom.

"Chewie's gone!"

"Damnit." His mom mumbled, pitching it in a low voice that her son wasn't meant to hear, but which he could anyway. "Just shut your door so he can't get out in the rest of the house. We'll look for him in the morning."

"The lights won't come on!"

"He probably chewed through the wires. Just go to bed. We'll never find him in the dark, anyway."

Reluctantly, Kyle shut his bedroom door, then practically catapulted himself into bed. He didn't like leaving the door shut at night, though he'd never, ever, ever admit it. How had Chewie gotten out of his cage? Kyle knew he'd closed and locked it. A suspicion formed in his mind, a suspicion that, if confirmed, meant his little sister would be sweeping up the itty bitty pieces that would be all that was left of her china tea set the next morning.

She had to have done it.

Kyle rolled over in bed and fell into a light sleep...

...only to be awakened by an unfamiliar sound. It sounded like the wind or the ocean or...someone breathing.

He lay completely still, listening to the noise and trying to locate its source, when he felt something soft tickle the back of his neck. Very slowly, he rolled over to see hat it was, and screamed.

_"Chewie!"_

The little hamster lay on the pillow beside him. It's head was gone. Beads of its dark blood dripped onto the white pillowcase.

Kyle threw off the covers, jumped out of bed, and started stumbling towards the closed bedroom door. Some monster was in the dark room with him! Before he took more than two steps, a hand shot out from under the bed and grabbed his ankle in a vicelike grip. Kyle fell forward, and his fingers scrabbled desperately at the floor as he was dragged mercilessly backwards. The boy didn't even have time for another scream before he disappeared into the darkness under the bed

[O]

Michelle Patterson sat at the vanity table in front of her bedroom window, humming as she brushed her long red hair. Her teeth had already been brushed, her white satin nightgown had been rescued from the laundry, and her crystal butterfly nightlight had been plugged in. She was all ready for bed, except this last nightly ritual often took quite a bit of time, so much so that it was the subject of affectionate teasing by her mother. Michelle didn't care. She always brushed her hair before bedtime, it just didn't feel right if she didn't.

"Michelle!" Her mother looked her daughter over from where she stood in her bathrobe just outside the bedroom door, with her thin arms crossed over her chest and her wet hair wrapped up in a towel. "It's 10:30, honey. Better get to bed."

"In a minute."

_"Now!"_

"Okay." Sighing, the little girl ran over to kiss her mother on the cheek. She breathed in the scent of her mother's lilac shampoo and wondered if her mom would let her borrow it sometime. "Night, mom!"

"Goodnight, baby." Her mother quietly shut the door.

Michelle picked up the compact mirror from the vanity and took one more look at her beautiful hair, then laid down next to the bottles of nail polish. She was careful to step over the various toys that were strewn across the floor as she made her way to her bed. After climbing in and pulling up the covers, she turned on the butterfly night light next to her bed. The smiling plastic butterfly shifted it's colors, going from soft pinks, to flaming reds, emerald greens, and peaceful blues and purples. Michelle relaxed as the whole room was bathed in a rainbow-hued light. She closed her eyes.

Something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. She opened her eyes and saw a man standing over her, his demonic face reflecting the changing colors of the lamp. He tilted his head at her like a dog, and Michelle realized in a terrified instant that the sharp thing against her throat was a pair of scissors.

And then the nightlight went out, leaving the girl in utter darkness.

_"MOMMY!"_

Quick footsteps from outside the door, then it was flung open by Michelle's mother. "What? What is it?"

"There's a man! There's a man in my room!"

"You were dreaming. There's nobody here."

"He was right there!"

But after Michelle forced her mother to check under the bed, in the closet, and even outside the window, she was forced to grudgingly concede that, there was indeed, nobody there. So the night light was turned back on, Michelle's mother gave her daughter a kiss, and reluctantly accepted a promise to stay with her until she fell completely asleep.

But the next morning, when Michelle looked at herself in the compact mirror, she felt a chill. One sentence was scrawled across the reflective surface in red nail polish.

JAMIES UNCLE IS WATCHING YOU

[O[

Josh Farrends was about to beat his high score on Donkey Kong when his father snuck up behind him, snatched the controller from his hand, and switched the game off.

"Dad!" Josh whined.

"Time for bed, kiddo/"

So Josh had gone to bed - with a flashlight and an X-Men comic - and was at the moment huddled beneath the blankets, listening intently for his father's footsteps in case the old man decided to come into his room and check on him. He'd already been caught reading comics in bed once, and Charlie Farrends had not been pleased.

He turned a page in his comic, then stopped as his ears caught a faint rustling sound, then the squeak of the closet door sliding on its track.

Someone was messing around in his closet!

"Sam," Josh called out irritably, assuming that the intruder was his little sister, Samantha. This was just the sort of thing she would do. Always nosy, borrowing his comics and not bringing them back, ratting him out to Mom and Dad when would've gotten away with it, how could anyone live with such an annoying brat of a sister?

"Samantha, is that you?"

No answer. And then the sound the deep, heavy breathing.

Josh clicked off the flashlight. He lay under the blankets, listening to the rise and fall of the weird breathing noise. It didn't sound like Samantha at all. Had his Dad come back? But then, why would he be in the closet?

Josh felt his hear beat faster as footsteps echoed off the wooden floor, coming towards him, stopping right beside the bed. The boy lay frozen in terror as a hand started pulling on blankets, slowly drawing them back, until they were completely gone and he lay helplessly on his back staring up into a white ghoul's face...

_"DAD!"_

"What?" His father's grumpy voice answered beside him. He was leaning over Josh's bed with a scowl on his face. "Didn't I tell you not to read comics in bed?"

"But...there was...I saw...!"

"I don't want to hear it," Charlie said archly as he snatched the comic from his son's hand. "Go to sleep."

Josh rolled over and shut his eyes, but, no matter how hard he tried not to, he couldn't stop sneaking glances at the closet door. It was wide open.

[O]

"Uncle, where are you?"

Jamie had awoken an hour ago from a terrible dream, only to find her uncle wasn't in his usual spot beside her. He'd never left her alone at night before and the empty house, as creepy as it was by day, became downright sinister at night. There were creaking noises as the house settled, shadowy corners where the sputtering candlelight couldn't reach, and the occasional squeaking of mice as they ventured out of their hidden nests in search of food. Upon realizing she was truly alone, the scared girl had gone on a frantic search through all the rooms upstairs. Coming up empty, she'd made her way downstairs and was now standing in the middle of the living room, shivering, hoping with all her heart that her uncle hadn't abandoned her. Sometimes Jamie felt afraid with him, but she'd never imagined that she'd be afraid without him.

Something squeaked and scurried across the floor in front of her and, upon backing up, she fell against a very solid shadow.

"Where were you?" She asked the shadow as it scooped her up in its arms. Her uncle didn't answer - not that she'd expected him to - and Jamie decided she didn't really care. She just rested her head against his broad chest while grabbing a handful of his mechanics suit, which amused and surprised him. It also gave Michael hope. Maybe she was beginning to understand that she was the only child in Haddonfield that didn't have to fear the Boogeyman.

**[O[**

**Author's Commentary:** Ah yes, that felt good to write. Justice has finally been served! I hope I made it clear that Michael wasn't angry Rachel picked Jamie up from school; he agreed to let her do that for secrecy's sake. It would've been too risky for Michael to pick Jamie up himself. Yes, Michael hates bullies, which is ironic because he sort of is one. I had to bring in Jamie's shoebox full of pictures somehow; that was too juicy a detail to leave out. Michael's already seen the pictures of course - that's how he knew Jamie was really his niece -but there's no way Rachel could've known that, hence her warning for Jamie not to show them to him. My failure to describe what happened to Kyle after he got pulled under the bed was intentional. I wanted to leave that part vague so your imaginations could fill in the blanks. I'm also aware I didn't address the issue of how Michael found out where the mean kids lived but, hey, he's the Boogeyman. He already knows where you live. Yes. Yes, he does.


	5. Sick

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating:** T to be safe.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters of Michael Myers or Jamie Lloyd or any other Halloween character.

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains one scene involving animal death. I tried not to make it too graphic, but we are talking about Michael Myers here. So if you're stomach can't take that sort of thing, feel free to skip over it. Just thought I'd give everyone a heads up.

**Chapter Five**

_"I'm visiting," said Lur. "With permission from Lady Glinda. I'm accompanying a man named Shell, who is inside tending to the needs of the sick."_

_"I'll say he is, and he's sicker than most," said the Ape. _

**-Gregory Maguire, "Son of a Witch"**

**[O[**

It had been nearly a month since Rachel had gotten a good night's sleep, which, not surprisingly, coincided with the amount of it'd been since Jamie was taken by her uncle. Too many horrible things had happened that night. The sight of human bodies lying crumpled and dead didn't lend itself to the creation of pleasant dreams, add to that the fact that Rachel had cared about most of them, and the nightmares that resulted were inevitable every time she dared to close her eyes.

She'd see Kelly Meeker pinned to the wall by a shotgun, her blood dripping from the barrel.

She'd see the burned, sizzling remains of that power plant worker, trails of smoke curling up from the bits of crispy flesh still remaining.

And, worst of all, she'd see Brady as he'd looked before he'd died, desperately trying to load his shotgun as Michael took his time coming up the stairs. She and Jamie had both heard the shotgun blast as they'd raced for the attic, which lead to one shining moment where they'd thought the supposedly unkillable Michael Myers had finally been put down. How wrong they'd been. Rachel had attended Brady's funeral the next week.

Poor Brady had been a better man than she'd given him credit for.

What infuriated more than anything was thinking of the pointlessness of it all. People had died trying to protect Jamie from her uncle, and Michael had still gotten to the poor girl in the end. When Rachel had woken up on the schoolhouse floor, she'd searched the whole building for her foster sister; every classroom, the girl's and boy's restrooms, the teacher's lounge and the principal's office. She'd run up and down three flights of stairs in record time. And after she'd searched every inch of space in the school, without finding any trace of Jamie, she'd collapsed into a pathetic huddle on the floor of the lobby, put her face in her hands, and started bawling her eyes out, certain her little sister was as dead as their poor dog, Sundae. It'd been another miserable, guilt-wracked hour before Loomis had broken the news that Jamie was alive, more or less safe, and now the ward of Michael Myers, whether she wanted to be or not.

Michael had gotten what he'd come home for, and now Rachel couldn't do a blasted thing about it.

_Damn Michael_, Rachel thought as she rolled over onto the side of the bed facing the cluttered nightstand. The digital alarm nestled among the bottles of Nyquil read 3:30 am and she had yet to fall into a sound, hopefully dreamless, sleep. The redheaded girl flopped onto her stomach, buried her face in the pillow, and breathed in it's smell. There were only three more hours before she'd have to get up, drive to the Myers house, pry Jamie out of Michael's arms, and take her to school. Then she'd have to head over to the high school, and struggle to keep from nodding off in the middle of English Lit.

_At least she's usually sitting on the curb waiting for me. Or hiding in the trees, if there are too many people around,_ Rachel thought. Rolling over, she sank back into the pillow and sighed as she closed her eyes. _I don't think I could stand going into that house and seeing Myers face-to-face. _

Her eyes flew open as a hand, rough and inhumanly strong, covered her mouth, ensuring that her first panicked scream was cut short. Another arm circled tightly around her waist as she was ripped violently out of bed, then tucked under one of her attacker's arms like a rolled-up tube of carpet. As her hands flew up to try to pry loose the large fingers clamped around her mouth, a ray of moonlight streaming through the window fell upon the face of none other than Michael Myers, casting the white mask in a bluish, ethereal glow.

Michael removed his hand from her mouth briefly, giving her time to gulp in air for a fresh scream, but before she could release it and awaken her parent's who were sleeping just down the hall, something sticky was slapped over her lips, effectively cutting off any cry for help. With a sickening lurch in her stomach, Rachel realized it was a piece of duct tape. An effective gag.

She struggled, squirmed, and kicked in his grasp with a fierceness that would do any trapped animal proud, but her resistance only made his unbearably tight grip on her midriff strengthen to the point where she could barely breathe. Even so, she kept on fighting, forcing him to pause every few steps to adjust his grip as he carried her down the stairs and out the front door, which was hanging ajar with it's lock cleanly broken. As he stepped into the driveway, Rachel could see they were headed for a familiar black car. After opening the rear door, Michael threw his captive into the back seat. Rachel sat up, balling up her right fist in what would probably have been a suicidal attempt to punch him in the face, but before the blow could connect her wrist was trapped in Michael's left hand and pushed back. More duct tape appeared and Rachel could only stare, with her body shaking from anger and fear, as Michael wound the material around both her wrists, making any movement of her hands impossible, When he was finished securing her hands, he started on her ankles, deftly avoiding her attempts to kick him as he bound her feet together. After the last piece was applied, he stood over her with his head tilted in that annoyingly childlike way of his, as though he were proud of himself for having successfully disarmed her fists and feet, then slammed the door. A second later he was in the driver's seat and pulling out of the driveway.

Rachel wanted to scream obscenities at the back of his head, but the duct tape made that impossible. All she could do was lay down in the vinyl seats and stare daggers at his ghostly reflection in the rearview mirror as he drove and wonder what the hell he was up to.

A terrifying thought occurred to her, one that chilled her heart until it was a heavy block of ice in her chest. What if Michael had decided he didn't want to keep Jamie after all? Before, he'd seemed reluctant to hurt anyone his niece cared about, purely out of a desire to keep her happy. But if what Jamie wanted no longer mattered to him then...?

_Oh God, then we're both as good as dead._ Rachel thought, shivering, Was her baby sister even now lying cold and dead in a pool of her own blood back at Michael's house? Or was Michael planning to kill them both at the same time, maybe making her watch as he butchered Jamie right in front of her...?

_Damn Michael! Damn Loomis! And damn me for listening to his crazy scheme to cure the psycho when it put my own sister in danger!_

When the car stopped moving and Michael once again opened her door, Rachel's face was wet with tears. She lashed out at him one more time as he leaned over her, bending her knees and aiming both of her bound feet at his stomach, but he jumped back at the last moment, then fixed her with a cold glare. With a roughness that hinted at simmering impatience, Michael grabbed her by the ankles and, with one quick pull, dragged her out of the backseat. Her back landed painfully in hard, cold mud that splattered all over her nightshirt, chilling her skin when it made contact with her bare arms and legs. Michael bent down, wrapped an arm around her waist, and once again tucked her against his hip as he picked his way through trees and shrubs, heading directly for the front door of his house. Not being seen by the neighbors was apparently no longer an issue for him, plus the street was completely dark, with no lights shining in any of the nearby houses, that Rachel doubted they'd be spotted anyway. The only living thing that seemed to be aware of them was a dog barking furiously from across the street. She fought against Michael through the entire walk to the house, forcing him several times to pause and take a firmer hold on her, not caring if it angered him or not.

Soon, they'd reached the front steps of the house. Michael pushed the door open with his free hand, then Rachel gave a muffled scream of frustration when she was carried over the threshold, past the point of no return. The interior of the house was a blur of vague, confusing shapes backlit by scores of flickering candles. She was taken up a flight of stairs, then into a room with a large bed. Candles burned on every available surface; on shelves, the table next to the bed, even in dishes on the floor, so Rachel had no trouble making out the small, still figure huddled in the bed, wrapped in what appeared to be an entire yardsale's worth of old blankets.

"Hi, Rachel." Jamie's voice, unusually weak, whispered from within the mountain of blankets on the bed. The girl lay on her back with the covers pulled up to her chin. Relief to see her sister alive surged through Rachel, so that when Michael set her down and began sawing through his makeshift bindings with a kitchen knife, she momentarily forgot that she was in the lair of a vicious killer and that things could still go downhill.

Soon the only tape left was the piece covering her mouth. She braced herself for the imminent sharp pain by gritting her teeth, commanding herself not to scream as Myers tore it off in one quick, savage jerk.

"Ngggggghhhh!" Rachel spat, trying to rid her mouth of the taste of glue. She'd still made a sound, but more of an angry grunt. Not a scream at all, by her definition.

Rachel stood with as much dignity as possible for a woman wearing only a faded nightshirt with the Haddonfield Huskies logo on the front and a pair of pink underwear, and tried not to feel self-conscious as Michael stared at her. Anger waged a war against fear for control of her vocal chords and, when Michael did another maddening head tilt, anger got the upper hand. Scowling and balling her fists, Rachel had to bite her tongue to keep from directing a string of rich profanity at Michael while in earshot of her little sister.

From the bed, Jamie watched her foster sister and uncle try to vaporize each other with their eyes. She frowned, shooting a reproachful look at her uncle.

"You didn't have to tie her up," she sighed.

The irritated glare Michael sent at Rachel seemed to say _Oh yes, I did_. He still had a loose grip on the kitchen knife, but kept it lowered at his side. Taking this to mean that his intentions towards her, at least for the moment, did not involve stabbing, Rachel turned away, dismissing Myers completely as she headed for the bed and it's occupant.

The thing that immediately caught her off guard was the bucket placed on the floor by Jamie's side of the bed, within easy reach. And the smell coming from it was horribly, disgustingly familiar.

_Uh-oh._ She was starting to suspect what all this was about, but it never hurt to ask.

"Jamie, what's going on?"

"I'm sick."

Suspicions confirmed, Rachel sighed as she finally got a decent look at Jamie's face. The little girl's wide, dilated eyes shone too brightly as they reflected the candlelight, her round little face was flushed and, as Rachel felt her forehead with the back of one hand, the skin there felt hot and damp.

"You're running a fever." Rachel stated flatly.

Jamie sat up quickly, letting the covers slide down to her lap. Her small body shook and her throat worked convulsively as she swallowed a few times. When she leaned over the edge of the bed, Rachel knew what was coming.

"Rachel, I'm going to..."

Instinct took over as the older girl snatched up the bucket, holding it in front of Jamie as the poor girl retched, vomiting up a thick yellowish stream. It was a full minute before Jamie finished, wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her pajamas, then collapsed into a tired heap on the bed, burrowing under the covers once more.

"How long have you been throwing up?" Rachel asked, frowning in concern.

"About an hour. I felt bad at school yesterday." The answer came out muffled, issuing in a tired sigh from a veritable cocoon of cotton and wool.

Rachel turned around to confront Myers, who stared back at her with an expectant, commanding gleam in his ebony black eyes.

_Make her better._

The teenager sighed, all too aware that something like this had been bound to happen eventually. Getting sick was a part of life. No man, woman, or child could avoid it, but everyone learns how to deal with it. And when children get sick, standard procedure is to put them to bed, take their temperature regularly, give them medicine even though they almost always complain nonstop about how bad it tastes and, if that fails, off to the doctor.

But Michael, who'd only spent six years with his parents before going crazy and being locked up, hadn't had a clue about how to handle a sick child, so he'd gone off to find someone who would. He'd never had to worry about anyone but himself before, so all this was new too him.

Which meant she would have to teach him.

She took a few deep breaths, steeled herself, and addressed Michael. "She needs medicine," she said, making her adopting the no-nonsense voice she used when babysitting rebellious two-year olds. "I have to go back to my house to get some."

Michael's breathing became heavier, while the hand holding the kitchen knife twitched. He clearly wasn't happy. _Well, neither am I!_ Rachel thought, feeling her anger at being grabbed out of bed in the small hours of the night, bound, gagged, and manhandled come sweeping back, making her eyes burn and pulse pound.

"Look," she said as Michael continued to stare at her. Her anger and contempt for the man fueled her resolve not to be cowed by his intimidating looks. "Jamie's sick, all right. It happens to kids all the time. There's medicine that can make her better and we can check with the doctor to see if..."

Michael's knife was up and coming at her before she had time to think about getting out of the way. Jamie screamed, then there was the splintering crack of wood as the blade embedded itself in the wall beside her head with millimeters to spare. Michael's face was inches away from hers, his breath coming out in ragged pants, and something warm began trickling down her neck in a thin stream issuing from behind her right ear.

A second later, Michael removed his knife from the wall, turned on his heel, and stalked away from the teen, who lifted up one shaking hand to touch the small cut behind her ear. Stunned, the sound of Jamie sobbing didn't register in Rachel's mind for several seconds.

"Rachel, I'm...s-sorry. He shouldn't have...I shouldn't have..."

Rachel snapped out of the daze she was in, went over to the bed, and hugged her sister. "Shhhh. It's all right. I'm fine." As she comforted Jamie, Rachel went over the exchange with Myers step-by-step in her head, searching for whatever had set him off.

She thought she had the answer and her lips curved up in a sarcastic, slightly vindictive smile.

_Welcome to the joys of parenthood, asshole._

[O]

The cold metal of the kitchen knife sang through the air as it's owner swung it in a vicious upward arc, imagining it sinking to the hilt in warm flesh. Michael stalked down the front steps of his house, swinging the blade as he walked. When he came to a line of shrubbery marking the boundary of his front yard, he began slashing the greenery, sending bits of evergreen leaves, stems, and vines spewing into the air like an emerald fountain. As he hacked at the defenseless plants, he envisioned putting the knife through the eye of the Carruthers girl, that red-headed _bitch._

It had taken every ounce, every crumb, every minuscule speck of control he possessed to keep from slaughtering the girl in front of Jamie. She'd caused him nothing but trouble all night, had fought him like an insane hellcat when he'd brought her to help his niece. He'd thought the girl would want to help, since she supposedly loved little Jamie as much as he did. But she'd been cruel enough to suggest sending the little girl to a doctor!

He _hated_ doctors!

He'd been around them enough growing up to know that they were egotistical, condescending, shallow people who treated their patients like lab rats. Always running tests on him, keeping him sedated at night, asking him pointless questions while jotting down notes about his "progress" - or lack thereof. Except for Dr. Loomis, who hadn't tried to hide who he was behind a mask of fake friendliness. He'd often been harsh, callous, and cruel to Michael, but at least he had been honest. Sam Loomis was the only doctor Michael respected.

The rest were a pack of dishonorable cowards and he didn't want his niece going _anywhere near them!_

Michael stood by the ruined shrubs, breathing in and out, trying to make the anger go away. It didn't. There was only one way it would.

He needed to kill something.

That's when he became aware of the dog.

It was in the front yard of the house across the street. A big rottweiler: it had shaggy black fur on its stomach and back, and legs, which transitioned gradually into a yellowish-brown around the paws and muzzle. It had caught his scent earlier, and was still barking manically, throwing its head back as it expressed itself in quick, angry bursts of noise. Saliva dripped from its mouth as it struggled to break the metal links of the chain holding it at bay.

When Michael stalked across the street and entered the yard, the dog's barking died down, weakening in strength to soft whines, growls, and snarls. It shied away from him, cowering with it's tail between it's legs as it tried to retreat back into the safety of it's doghouse. Taking hold of the chain, Michael used it to drag the animal back to him. There followed a sickening crunch as he rammed his kitchen knife through the dog's sternum, burying it up to the hilt in the fur of it's chest, ignoring the startled, ear-splitting yip that would be the last sound the noisy brute would ever make. Wrenching the blade out of the gaping, gore-soaked hole, he let the carcass crumple onto it's side, the tension in it's muscled legs draining away as it landed in a mud puddle with a soft splat. Tilting his head to the side, Michael stared down at his handiwork.

The dog was definitely dead. It's brown eyes were wide and lifeless as glass beads. The rise and fall of it's breathing had stopped. Blood oozed from the hole in it's chest, mixing with the mud on the ground. His pulse began to race as he felt the old, perverse excitement at the sight of blood, a symptom of the sickness in hi mind that he'd been struggling to keep in check for weeks, slipping through, over, and beyond the image of Jamie he constantly held in his mind as a shield against his inner demon. Evil called to him.

The dog was dead.

And Michael realized it'd been almost forty-eight hours since he'd had anything to eat.

He stooped down and grabbed hold of the dog's left hind leg. After using the knife to carve out a chunk of muscle from the dog's left flank, Michael raised his mask up just enough so that his mouth was exposed, brought the dripping meat to his lips, and took a bite.

[O]

Fifteen minutes after Michael's spectacular exit found Rachel and Jamie huddled underneath the covers of the huge bed: the former feeling extremely grateful for the mountains of blankets since her short nightshirt was a flimsy barrier against the chill in the house. Rachel wiggled her toes, trying to coax warmth back into the icebergs that were her feet while simultaneously thinking of how she would handle Michael when he came back. Physically attacking him was out of the question, though that option was certainly the most appealing. She already knew what needed to be done about Jamie; she just hoped that Michael would be rational for once and listen.

Rachel looked over at Jamie, who was laying close beside her. The little girl's face screwed up in a grimace, and Rachel heard her stomach give a loud gurgle.

"My tummy hurts," she moaned.

"I'm taking you back to Mom and Dad's," Rachel said.

Jamie's eyes widened and she tried to sit up, but another cramp chose that moment to grab her stomach and twist and she flopped back down onto the pillows with a soft moan. Scared, Jamie turned to her sister, fixing her with very wide eyes. "Uncle Michael won't let you!"

"He doesn't have a choice. You need to be where you can actually get better and I don't think that'll happen here," she said as she hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms in a hopeless attempt to smooth out the goosebumps. "Doesn't he ever use that fireplace downstairs?" she muttered crossly.

"Sometimes."

"Not often enough, apparently." Rachel leaned over to affectionately ruffle her sister's hair. "You won't get over a cold while you're living in the Arctic Circle. To prove her point, Rachel brought one of her frozen feet close to Jamie's leg. The little girl eeped and pulled away.

"See what I mean? Rachel asked, grinning.

"But how will you...?" Jamie's mouth clamped shut as both girls heard the distinctive thump of Michael's boots coming up the stairs. Slipping out of the bed, Rachel paused long enough to take Jamie's hand and squeeze it. "Everything's gonna be okay," she whispered, fervently hoping that statement wouldn't turn out to be a lie. Holding her breath, ignoring the icy air that numbed every square inch of exposed skin on her body, she turned to face the door.

Michael stomped into the room, looking just as deranged as when he'd stomped out. Candlelight flickered over the pale features of his mask. His dark blue mechanics uniform appeared black in the dim light. He held his knife too tightly in his right hand, and Rachel's gut gave an almighty lurch when she saw smears of fresh blood on the serrated edge. He's really angry, she thought. .

Brushing past Rachel as though she weren't even there Michael went straight to the bed to check on Jamie. Leaning over her, Michael began stroking Jamie's damp forehead, and Rachel was surprised at the amount of tenderness she saw in the gesture. Jamie accepted this treatment, giving her uncle a weak smile that seemed to calm him enough that Rachel figured now was the best chance she'd get to say what she needed to say.

"I need to take Jamie back to my house."

She thought her heart would stop when Michael head jerked up and looked her way. If he was angry before, now he appeared absolutely murderous. Still, Rachel returned his stare, her own anger at the way he'd treated her earlier fueling her determination not to show fear.

"I can't do anything for her here! She needs medicine, food, and a warm place to sleep. I don't see any of those around here!"

Michael stabbed a finger at the pile of blankets on top of Jamie.

Rachel groaned._ Stubborn son of a...!_

"Okay, fine, you've got that. But there's no medicine and no food. If she stays here, she'll only get worse!"

At that moment, Jamie bellowed out an exaggerated moan and clutched her belly with both hands for effect. She began to writhe on the bed as though in excruciating pain. A seasoned babysitter like Rachel has no problem telling when a child is really hurt and when they are hamming it up. And right now, she could tell that her little sister was being a very large ham.

Michael, however, got a panicked look in his eyes.

"I told you so!" Rachel cried, playing it up. "We have to take her to my house now or she'll die!"

It worked beautifully. Michael scooped up in his arms and carried her down the stairs. Rachel followed, and in the next minute the two girls were riding in the backseat of Michael's car. This time, Michael didn't even bother to tie Rachel up. She held Jamie in her lap and, with Michael's eyes focused intently on the road ahead of them, took the opportunity to whisper in her sister's ear.

"Good acting skills."

"Not all of it was fake. My stomach still hurts."

"But you're not going to die anytime soon, are you?"

"Nope."

Rachel grinned, hugging her sister. And so it was that Rachel's second time riding in the backseat of Michael's car was much, much pleasanter than the first. There wasn't a shred of duct tape in sight.

]O]

Rachel had to carry Jamie the last block to the house, since the approaching dawn meant people were starting to venture out on their way to early-morning jobs and the risk that someone might see Michael was too great. An icy drizzle began falling as soon as they'd gotten out of the car and, by the time she'd carried her sister up the front steps and into the house, Rachel's arms and legs were covered in a thin layer of chilly water. Her teeth chattered and she was starting to cramp up from the cold, giving her yet another excuse to mentally curse Michael.

Richard and Darlene were naturally overjoyed to see their foster-daughter again, but sobered when Rachel explained that her return was only temporary. "He'll take her back as soon as she's better." Rachel said, sighing as the look of resignation spread across her mother's face.

"Is he treating her well?" Darlene asked Rachel as she handed her daughter a bottle of Tylenol to take up to Jamie.

"He hasn't killed her yet," Rachel said, intending it to be a joke but regretting her hasty words when Darlene gasped and wiped tears from her eyes.

"Oh God, Rach, don't say that!"

Now a shamed and repentant Rachel trudged up the stairs to Jamie's room, once again charged with the responsibility of looking after her younger sister/

_At least some psycho won't be chasing me over rooftops this time_, she thought.

_No, he'll just be following me around all day, watching my every move_. She pushed that dismal prediction aside as she stepped into Jamie's room.

"Hey, funny-face!" Rachel called to her sister cheerfully, who sat up in bed as she came closer. "Open wide so I can shove this down your throat!" She held up the bottle of Tylenol.

"Ugh," Jamie grumped as she reluctantly accepted the plastic cap full of red liquid. She threw her head back, downing the medicine in a single gulp, then collapsed back into the fluffy bed with a world-weary sigh.

"I feel terrible."

"It's okay," replied Rachel, taking her sister's hand and squeezing it gently. "You'll get better quick. You always do."

"Not just cause I'm sick." Jamie reached up to touch the small cut Michael's knife had made behind Rachel's right ear. "I'm sorry he did that to you."

"Not your fault. Forget about it." Rachel bent down to kiss Jamie's cheek. "Mom and Dad have to work, but I'm staying home to take care of you."

"You won't be the only one." Jamie whispered, looking serious. "He'll be here too."

"I know." Rachel closed her eyes, trying not to think of the pale-faced, murdering bastard that was as likely as not going to be hanging around this sick child all day and observing Rachel like the world's creepiest med student.

"I'm gonna go get dressed. Be back in a minute." Rachel said. She glanced over her shoulder at Jamie, who huddled down among the pillows and blankets on her old, familiar bed, then quietly shut the door, leaving the little girl alone.

But not for long.

[O]

Finally, the redhead was gone!

Carefully, Michael used his knife to pry open Jamie's bedroom window. It took a few tries, but the lock eventually broke and he was able to slide the glass pane up. With his hands still on the sill, preparing himself to crawl through, he paused for a moment to observe his niece. She was turned away from him, laying on the side facing the bedroom door with the covers pulled up to her chin, so all he could really see of her were a few tufts of brown hair poking out from underneath the pink and white blankets thrown over her bed. A mountain of multi-colored stuffed bears, cats, and dogs, as well as other less-identifiable creatures, were piled up behind her pillow. He made a mental note to bring some of them back with him as soon as she was better and he could take her home.

He hoisted himself through the window feet first, landing with a soft thump on the carpet, then crossed the remaining distance to Jamie's bed. He noted someone - probably the redhead - had placed a wastebasket on the side of the bed closest to Jamie, and remembered all too well what purpose it served. When his niece had woken up sick and had leaned over the edge of the bed they shared to vomit all over the floor, he'd felt his chest tighten from an emotion that he'd later identified as fear. The realization that his niece could get sick, could actually even die, terrified him. And he didn't like that feeling one bit.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever been sick as a child, well, not the normal type of sickness; the colds and fevers and stomach upsets that all normal kids experienced. It must've happened to him at least once, but he couldn't remember it. And as much as he hated the Carruthers girl, he needed her for this. To help him make Jamie better. If Rachel couldn't do that, then he'd have no problem killing her.

Silently, he approached the bed and stared down at its single occupant. She wasn't asleep; he could tell by the way she breathed. She'd feigned sleep a few times in the past, whenever she'd wanted him to leave her alone, and he'd done it himself on several occasions to lure victims to him, so Michael was something of an expert on the age-old game of playing possum. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began stroking her hair, offering her an affectionate greeting, but she still didn't move. Jamie was deliberately ignoring him, which surprised him with how much it hurt. Well, there was one thing that she couldn't ignore. With deliberate slowness, he brought his hand down to her right arm where it lay on top of the covers and wriggled his fingers into her armpit.

His niece let out a gratifying gasp as she felt him tickle her, and he noticed when she balled her hand up so hard that her nails dug into her palm, all in an effort to keep from laughing. He felt his own facial muscles twitch up in an unfamiliar smile as his niece bit her lip in a last-ditch effort to hold it in, then gave up and let her breath escape in a quick burst of giggles. She shut her mouth just as quickly but, realizing correctly that he wouldn't let up until she acknowledged him, rolled over, opened her eyes, and peered up at her uncle. Gazing down on the cherubic face of his niece, Michael wondered if his eyes looked as smug as he felt.

Evidently so, because Jamie frowned at him.

"You hurt Rachel," she said, her voice sounding soft and tired but still carrying a note of accusation that made him wince. "You promised me you wouldn't."

Michael let his breath out in a frustrated hiss. Why had he ever promised this child something like that? Controlling his violent impulses was like trying to stop a hurricane with his bare hands; virtually impossible, but he was giving it his best shot. Couldn't she see that?

He laid a hand against Jamie's cheek, trying to communicate to her that he was sorry, when in reality he felt that the redhead had gotten off easy. He could've given her a lot worse than just a shallow cut. That's when he noticed the red splotches on the back of his hand. That damned dog's blood was still on his hands!

Unfortunately, Jamie noticed it too. In an instant, her eyes went from being half-open slits to wide, brown orbs as she gasped and scooted away from him, cringing back into the mound of stuffed animals. A small spot of blood glistened upon her cheek where his hand had just been, and Jamie's already pale face went ashen when she wiped it away.

"You killed somebody?" she asked, her voice not quite high enough to be called a scream but very close to it.

Thinking quickly, Michael leaned forward, snatched up Jamie's right wrist before she had a chance to pull it back, and traced three letters on the girl's trembling palm.

D-O-G

She understood what he meant almost immediately. The relieved smile he'd hoped to see never came. Instead, a horrified, trapped-rabbit look came into her eyes and her voice became shriller.

"You killed a dog? _Again?_" Michael met her huge, bright eyes and nodded once. She stared back at him, open-mouthed, then a wet gurgle came from the back of her throat as she started swallowing like a fish, and Michael's black eyes widened in alarm as he realized what that meant. He had just enough time to scramble out of the way so his niece could lean over the bed and vomit messily into the wastebasket.

Jamie's bedroom door swung open.

"Jamie, are you all ri-" Rachel's voice trailed off as her eyes locked with Michael's. From opposite sides of the bed, the two glared at each other as Jamie finished retching. After the final heave, the coughing, spluttering little girl straightened up, brought a shaky hand up to wipe the streaming tears from her eyes, and beheld her two guardians staring at each other with equal amounts of hostility and loathing. Glancing from one tense face to the other and back again, Jamie sighed, wondering glumly if she would survive the day ahead of her.

**[O]**

**Author's Commentary:** For the record, I just want to say that the scene where Michael kills the dog was not fun to write. I love animals. Spiders, snakes, you name it, I'll cuddle with it, so long as it won't kill me. Michael, however, is a different story. Throughout the movies, he's shown a certain brutality to any and all dogs that cross his path. Lester, Sundae, Max. The unfortunate dog in Rob Zombie's of them were killed spectacularly by Michael. And as much as I want Michael to become a better person, I realized that I shouldn't make it too easy for him. Jamie's presence gives him a reason to fight the darkness within, but he's still going to slip up sometimes. And when he does, it's gonna be nasty. In my first version of this chapter, I even had him go completely off the rails and terrorize Lampkin Lane, but decided later to keep the focus primarily on his rivalry with Rachel. Though I felt that Jamie's reaction when she found out what he'd done, complete with Michael almost getting barfed on, gave the pooch a little symbolic revenge.

Another thing, I've decided to revise the ending of Ch. I to take Sheriff Meeker out of the "circle of trust" among the people who know Myers is living with Jamie. I decided that there is no way a man like Meeker would allow The Shape to roam free in Haddonfield, whether Jamie was keeping him under control or not. Those of you that have seen H4 will remember that Meeker has a very big bone to pick with Michael, which could lead to interesting developments down the road.

The next chapter will be a continuation of this one, since I didn't have it in me to write everything out in one go. It'll have Rachel and Michael in close proximity, taking care of Jamie while she's sick, and trying not to kill each other in the process. Wish them luck. :)

Before I sign off, I just wanna say Happy Holidays to all my reviewers! You guys rock!


	6. Mad Artist

**Title**: What He Wants

**Rating:** T to be safe.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters of Michael Myers or Jamie Lloyd or any other Halloween character.

**Chapter Six**

_I am the world's first fully-functional homicidal artist._

**-The Joker, Tim Burton's "Batman"**

**[O]**

_I can't put it off much longer._

Rachel closed her eyes and concentrated on the hot water as it cascaded down her back, shoulders, and legs, aware of individual drops as they fell upon her skin. She sighed, reveling in the sensation of muscles that had grown cramped and stiff finally loosening, freed of some of the tension the earlier ordeal with Michael had left her with. Steam billowed around her, white curls of moisture that dampened the tiled walls of the bathroom. Foamy streaks of vanilla-scented shampoo clung to her blonde hair as a few curly strands became tangled across her shoulders. She hesitated before finally tilting her head back under the showerhead, trying to stall the moment when she would have to step out of the soothing spray and back into what was rapidly becoming the single most stressful day of her life.

The music from _Psycho_ began to play in her head and Rachel almost slapped herself as she thought of the infamous shower scene. Wouldn't it be great if her prone-to-homicidal-rages houseguest chose this moment for one of his "episodes?"

_Knock it off, Rach. _

For all she knew, Michael was still in Jamie's bedroom, though he could've wandered to any other area of the house by now. With a resigned sigh, Rachel turned off the faucet, pulled back the shower curtain, and stepped out of the tub onto the rubber bathmat. Selecting a fluffy white towel from the rack, she began patting down her hair.

In retrospect she supposed she could've handled the earlier incident with a little more tact, When she'd burst into Jamie's room to find her little sister wiping puke, snot, and tears from her face with Michael hovering over her like the angel of death in a navy blue boiler suit, she'd let her distrust, resentment, and outright hostility for the masked man take control of her mouth yet again.

"What did you do?" she'd snapped at him.

Michael just stood there on the opposite side of the bed sending her a chilly glare, though she'd gotten the impression that this one was laced with extra frostiness meant just for her. She'd responded with an equally venomous look - damn if she was about to let him intimidate her after everything she'd been through! - when Jamie managed to croak out, "He didn't do anything. It's okay, Rachel."

Uncle and niece then shared a Look, the sort of furtive glance that passes between two people conspiring to keep a secret. Then Michael's gaze returned to Rachel, who'd continued to watch him carefully, noting how his fists clenched and unclenched several times, until he finally breathed out in a huge sigh. He'd tilted his head and Rachel had to fight the urge to scream in frustration from her inability to understand him. Jamie then laid back down, exhausted by her illness, so Rachel had made some lame excuse to get out of there and away from Michael.

_I don't know how Jamie stands it,_ she thought as she finished drying her hair._ Being alone with him all the time would drive me crazy. _

The last time she'd checked on her, her little sister had been sleeping peacefully in her room. Michael had been nowhere in sight. Rachel fervently hoped he'd gone back to his own house but, knowing him, he'd be lurking around somewhere, ready to slice and dice anyone or anything he feared might take his niece away from him.

_Like me,_ she thought with no small trace of bitterness.

Wrapping the towel around herself, she stepped onto the tiled floor, crossed the short distance to the counter built into the wall, and retrieved her clothes from where she'd left them in a pile by the sink. She could vaguely see her reflection in the fogged-up mirror above the sink as she pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a black sweater. I look like hell, she thought as she noted the bags under her droopy eyes. _Not surprising, considering I was jerked out of bed in the middle of the night by a mass murderer with a sick kid._ Her back was still sore from where she'd banged it when Michael dragged her out of the car the previous night, so she'd made sure the sweater was baggy enough it wouldn't chafe against her bruises. After hanging the wet towel up to dry, she put one hand on the brass doorknob, paused to take a deep, fortifying breath, and then opened the door onto the deserted hallway.

It was eerily quiet as she walked down the upstairs hall, her bare feet making very little noise on the thick carpeting. The master bedroom was down at the far end directly behind Rachel, and she couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder to make sure that the door, which her parents always kept shut, wasn't being opened by someone hiding inside, preparing to spring out at her. The door remained firmly shut each time she checked, but it was hard to shake the feeling that she was being followed, that a pair of intense black eyes were scrutinizing her every move.

Turning sharply to the left, she stepped into her sister's room.

Though Jamie now spent most of her time with her uncle, her foster-mother insisted on arranging the room exactly the way Jamie liked it. Shelves nailed into the wall behind the double-wide bed were cluttered with stuffed animals that, one way or another, usually wound up piled on the floor as though they'd jumped off the crowded shelves like multi-colored lemmings. Taking up the majority of the wall facing the bed was an oak dresser: the top of which was covered by figurines of unicorns, fairies, and angels, along with quite a few action figures of various cartoon characters whose names Rachel had given up trying to learn. A desk lamp, currently turned off, was on the small nightstand next to the bed, along with a glass of water and a crystal vase of fake roses. White curtains with delicate pink lace were drawn over the windows to keep out the harsh afternoon sun.

There was still no sign of Michael anywhere.

Hating to awaken her sister, yet not wanting to step into a room that might or might not harbor a killer without at least a little light, Rachel flipped the switch next to the bedroom door that started the ceiling fan. The room brightened considerably as the light fixture in the center of the fan came on. A soft breeze began to circulate as the rotors spun, rustling the pages of open books and lifting the strands of Rachel's hair.

As Rachel cautiously approached the side of the bed, Jamie's eyes fluttered open. Yawning, the little girl's bleary eyes slowly focused upon her sister.

"Hi," she said. One hand reached up to rub at her eyes while the other gripped the pillow, as though she clung to the fading impression of a dream.

"Hi, yourself," replied Rachel as she took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Sorry to wake you up."

"Mmph."

"How're you feeling?"

"A little better/"

"Still throwing up?"

"No."

"Thank God." Both sisters shared a laugh. Riding the vomit comet hadn't been fun for either of them. Jamie scooted back against the mound of stuffed animals so she was propped against the head of the bed. Folding her hands in her lap, the little girl tilted her head to the side - a move that thoroughly creeped Rachel out, since it was obvious she'd picked up that weird little quirk from her uncle, probably without even knowing it - and fixed Rachel with a serious look that made the youngster appear so much older than her true age of seven years. Her eyes seemed bigger than usual. Maybe a little darker, too.

"Something on your mind?" Rachel asked gently.

Several times Jamie opened her mouth as though about to say something, then shut it. She picked up a lock of her own hair that had previously lain on her right shoulder and began curling the brown strands around her index finger. Finally, with some hesitation, she said,"Do Mom and Dad ever...ask about me?"

"All the time." replied Rachel, who reached over to pluck the abused bit of hair out of the little girl's hand and tuck it behind her ear before Jamie twisted it into a knot.

"Do they miss me?"

Rachel arched an eyebrow. "That's a stupid question. Of course they miss you."

"Oh." The girl's head drooped a little, and she began to pick at the lacy sleeves of her nightgown as she considered Rachel's answer.

Suddenly, Rachel thought she had an idea of what was bothering her foster sister. "Why wouldn't they miss you?" she asked sharply.

Jamie's fidgeting became even worse and her voice was barely a whisper when she answered. "After all the bad stuff that happened on Halloween, I didn't know if..." She looked away as her voice trailed off into empty air. .

"Jamie, do you think Mom and Dad let Michael take you because they didn't want you anymore?"

Her inability to form an answer was all the answer Rachel needed.

Rachel sighed, thinking back to the time Jamie had asked her if she loved her like "a real sister." Jamie was a sweet, sensitive little kid who'd already lived through ordeals no one her age should have to deal with. Both her parent's had died leaving her an orphan while her only blood relative was being completely useless lying in a deep coma - not to mention he was a local serial killer, a fact that pretty much guaranteed Haddonfield residents who'd lost family members to said serial killer would treat the little girl like a freak. And if that weren't enough, when her long lost but-by-no-means-forgotten serial killer relation finally snapped out of his coma he'd come rushing back to claim his little niece as his property, killing everyone who'd got in his way. With so much craziness in her life in such a short time, no wonder the poor girl seemed so lost and confused.

"It was all Dr. Loomis's idea." Rachel's voice was firm, the no-nonsense babysitter voice she used on the especially stubborn pre-schoolers that insisted on staying up past their bedtimes or watching TV when there were chores still to be done; it was a voice that left no room for doubt or debate, "and he pretty much had to threaten Mom and Dad to get them to go along with it."

"Oh." Jamie, her eyes wide and a little wet, began burrowing herself back under the covers, as though suddenly embarrassed.

"Are you happy staying with your uncle?' asked Rachel, who peeled back the covers so she could see more of the little girl's face.

"Uh-huh" said Jamie. Her cherubic face seemed to brighten. her lips stretching into a tiny, half-smile, her eyes shone with an impish gleam. Leaning forward, the child whispered into Rachel's ear, "He likes to paint."

Rachel blinked. "Paint?"

Jamie nodded. Still with that sparkly gleam in her eyes, she carried on in a stream of bubbly chatter. "Last week my art teacher gave us all a set of paintbrushes and these little jars of paint to take home with us. I showed Uncle Michael and he found some paper and we both started mixing the paint up into all sorts of weird colors. Pretty soon we'd used up all the paper, so we just started painting on the walls and floor, and he even held me up so I could draw on the ceiling." She grinned. "It was fun."

"What sort of things did your uncle paint?" Rachel closed her eyes, praying. _Please God, don't let it be severed heads and stab wounds!_

"He...wouldn't let me see some of them. But mostly, he just drew people's faces." She paused, then became very solemn. "He drew a picture of Brady."

A chill crawled from the back of Rachel's neck all the way down to her stomach and settled there like a lead ball. "He did?"

"At least I think it was Brady. I asked him who it was supposed to be but he just shook his head. like he didn't know."

_Of course he didn't know. He probably doesn't bother to learn the names of anyone he kills. _Rachel scowled down at her hands, which she realized were shaking ever so slightly. Jamie grew very quiet, sensing the change in her sister's mood. A moment passed before the little girl cautiously piped up.

"Are you mad?"

Rachel's reply was a hollow moan. "No."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Rachel's arms were up and around her little sister, hugging her tight. Jamie sighed as she hid her face in her foster sister's hair, and whispered reassurances into her ear. "He tries to be good to me. He tries really hard."

_But his dark side still finds ways to rear its ugly head._ Rachel thought as she suppressed a shiver. _Leave it to Michael Myers, to paint pictures of his victims. _

As the two girls separated, Rachel brushed the back of one hand against Jamie's forehead, frowning at the too-warm skin she encountered there. "I should take your temperature again." She stood up and headed for the door, then stopped to fire off a question over her shoulder.

"Is Michael still in the house?"

Shrugging her shoulders, Jamie answered, "He was right beside me when I fell asleep earlier, but I don't know where he went."

"Great." Sighing, Rachel stood and started toward the door, steeling herself to venture out into a house in which a psychopath might be lurking.

Just as Rachel was about to leave, she paused, struck by a sudden, uncomfortable thought. Standing in the doorway, she turned to stare hard at her sister.

"Jamie, if your uncle ever hurt you...or anyone else...you would tell someone, right?"

Caught off guard, Jamie spluttered, "I...um...yeah, I would."

This clearly halfhearted affirmative did nothing to settle Rachel's suspicion that the girl might be growing a little too attached to her killer uncle. No point in worrying about it just now, though.

The upstairs hallway still appeared empty when Rachel stepped out of Jamie's room. As she passed the open door to her own room on the way to the stairs, she couldn't resist taking a quick glance inside, just to make sure Myers wasn't waiting to spring out at her from that direction. Everything looked in order; the bed hadn't been made, dirty socks dangled where she'd tossed them over the back of the stuffed reading chair. The African violet by the window drooped slightly from thirst - she'd have to water it later - and the desk where she did her homework was buckling under a small mountain made of textbooks - all exactly as she'd left it. She was about to leave, then stopped, transfixed by a framed photo of Brady on the top of her dresser. He was wearing his jersey, and had one arm slung over Rachel's shoulders while balancing a football on the first finger of his left hand. Both of them wore goofy smiles plastered on their faces. With great effort, she tore her eyes away from the picture of her murdered boyfriend, while shutting her mind against all disturbing thoughts of Brady's killer taking the time to paint a picture of the dead boy, possibly driven by some sick impulse to pay homage to his victims.

All was quiet as she descended the stairs. Passing through the sitting room on her way to the kitchen, she glanced around, noting the position of every shadow. Nothing seemed out of place. Mom had left her sewing basket sitting on the couch again. The remote control was in its customary spot on the glass coffee table in front of the TV. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary and normal.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

She spun on her heels, her hands coming up to shield her face from the attack her instincts screamed at her was imminent.

No one was there.

Rachel drew air into her lungs, held it there for a moment, then let it all out in a shaky breath. She began to get angry. _Maybe he's playing with me,_ she thought bitterly. _Enjoying making me squirm. _

"If you're trying to scare me into having a heart attack it won't win you any points with Jamie," she shouted. If Michael was hiding anywhere nearby, he'd be sure to hear it.

She ducked through the doorway that led to the kitchen, heading straight for the drawer underneath the sink where her mother kept the Band-Aids, salves, and other medical items. Pulling it out, she rummaged through the drawer until she fond the thermometer. Mission accomplished, she set off back upstairs, moving just a little bit quicker this time from her haste to get back into Jamie's room.

Leaning over her sister's bed, Rachel reached out a hand to gently shake the girl's shoulders, waking her from the doze she'd fallen into.

"You want it in your mouth or your armpit?" asked Rachel, who waved the thermometer in front of Jamie's sleepy eyes.

"Mouth."

"Thought so." Rachel grinned. Both girls knew what would happen should anything come into contact with Jamie's armpits.

Jamie opened her mouth to receive the thermometer.

Then shut it quickly as she caught sight of something over Rachel's right shoulder.

"Um...Rachel?"

"What?"

"The closet...!"

Already suspecting what she'd see, Rachel was in the midst of turning to confront the menace behind her but the attack - if it could even be called an attack - was over in seconds. One strong arm snaked around her waist, pinning her up against Michael's body, while his other hand came up to deftly pluck the thermometer out of her fingers.

"Michael, what the hell?" Rachel felt a weird mixture of relief and anger as Michael removed his hand from her waist, releasing her. _At least now I know where he is,_ she thought crossly. _How long has he been hiding in there? _

Rachel kept her eyes locked on him as he moved away from the dark interior of the closet and approached her, taking his time until he came to a halt right in front of her. The killer cut an imposing figure as the spinning fan blades above them cast his colorless face in alternating bands of light and shadow. Willing herself not to show fear, Rachel held her chin up high to glare figurative daggers with the tall killer whose attention, unfortunately for her, was directed entirely at the tiny thermometer in his hand. Baffled, Rachel watched as he poked it, rolled it across his palm, and finally held it up between his thumb and forefinger while sending a questioning look at her, cocking his head to signify his confusion.

Behind them, Jamie giggled, causing both adults to glance in her direction. Rachel rolled her eyes at her sister, prompting the little girl to point at the thermometer in her uncle's hand. "He wants to know what it does."

Rachel looked from Jamie to Michael and back again, then rubbed at her temples, sensing the onset of an impressively painful migraine. "It's.." She swallowed. Michael cocked his head to the side again, a mannerism that Rachel was sure would end up driving her to the brink of insanity before the day was out. "It's just a thermometer. All it does is take Jamie's temperature to see if she's running a fever. It won't hurt her. I'm just going to put it in her mouth for a few minutes." She was about to insist that Michael give the thermometer back to her when warning sirens went off in her head. _Take it easy. Don't let him get to you._ "Is that okay with you?"

He nodded. Warily, she held up her right hand, and held her breath as he dropped the thermometer into her palm.

She was keenly aware of Michael's eyes on her as she put the thermometer under Jamie's tongue. He'd moved to stand even closer behind her, close enough for her to feel his breath against her neck, and there was an unmistakable hint of a threat in the way his eyes trailed her every move as he watched over her shoulder. _Does he think I'd hurt my own sister?_ she wondered. She considered being offended by this childish behavior when it occurred to her that, considering what Michael had done to his own sisters, maybe he honestly did worry she might harm the younger girl.

She snickered inwardly. _A little paranoid, are we Michael?_

After a tense minute passed during which Michael remained too close for comfort, Rachel took the thermometer out of Jamie's mouth and checked it. "You've still got a fever. Better lie back down and sleep it off."

"Okay." Rachel started to lean over to kiss her sister's cheek as she snuggled back under the covers, then reconsidered. She didn't want to catch whatever Jamie had and get sick herself, and she certainly didn't want to set off the kid's unpredictable time bomb uncle standing right behind her.

Rachel turned and came almost nose to nose with the time bomb himself. He was at least a foot and a half taller than her, and she felt a brief flash of panic to be standing in such close proximity to him. _I don't know how much longer I can deal with this,_ she thought miserably.

"Are you going to stay here?" she asked him uncertainly.

He nodded.

She hoped her disappointment at this news didn't show on her face. "Then I'll be downstairs." He didn't move out of the way, so Rachel had to edge past him to get to the door. _He won't hurt Jamie, _she told herself as she slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

_At least, I hope not. _

[O[

Michael was so _bored!_

Jamie had nodded off an hour ago and watching her sleep wasn't having the calming effect on him it usually did. He'd already explored her room, and while most of her toys were interesting - especially the little figurines of people who were half-human and half-cat, he'd have to get her to tell him what they were supposed to be exactly whenever she woke up - they were a little too..._girly_ for his taste. He didn't like being away from his home, his sanctuary. He felt exposed out here, in this house that was so different from his own. More _civilized._

There was very little of civilization left in Michael's home. It had lain abandoned for so long while he'd been in a coma at Ridgemont that it felt more like a burned-out shell than the busy place he remembered living in for the first few years of his life. Granted, the plumbing still worked and there were plenty of candles for light. Other than that, it was a wreck. Now that Jamie had returned to this second, more comfortable home, with a normal family that she obviously still cared about, what if she decided not to come back with him?

He sat on the edge of Jamie's bed, stared down at his burnt hands, and weighed his options.

Should he kill her foster family?

It was the most straightforward solution but Jamie would resent him for it, and he'd become far too fond of the little girl to have her turn against him now.

Should he take her away now, while she was sleeping?

No, she couldn't leave this place until she was well again.

Not since Laurie shot him in the eyes had Michael been this blinded to what he should do. This one was driving him mad. He couldn't stay in Jamie's room any longer. With a grunt, he stood up and stalked out into the hallway.

A noise downstairs caught his attention. Moving with deliberate slowness he crept down the stairs, taking extra care not to step on any loose floorboards that might creak and give him away. Once he'd reached the first floor, he followed the sound - a noise like metal being stirred around in water - until he came upon the only other occupant of the house: the Carruthers girl.

_Rachel._ He remembered Jamie calling her that.

Rachel was standing over the kitchen sink with her arms in soapy water up to her elbows. She had a rag in one hand and was scrubbing vigorously at a dinner plate. The dishwasher - Michael quickly recalled the term for the domestic appliance - was open and already half-filled. A large refrigerator, its black metal surface plastered with colorful magnets shaped like flowers and farm animals, was built into the wall by the sink.

Michael stood in the shadows near the doorway to the kitchen and let his eyes follow the girl's every move. It was so hard to control himself around Rachel. She was the same age Judith had been when he'd done away with her. Teenage girls always awakened something primal in him, a dark urge that cried out to be fulfilled. For right now, however, he needed this particular girl alive.

That didn't mean he couldn't torment her in other ways.

Emerging from the shadows, Michael started to edge toward the girl, moving slowly so his boots wouldn't squeak on the linoleum. With catlike silence he came closer and closer until he stopped just a foot away from her. Her back was to him, and if he'd wanted to he could've reached out, grabbed her neck, and broken it in less time than it would take to dry the dishes.

Instead, he just stood there. And when Rachel lifted a plate out of the sink to put it away, it turned at just the perfect angle to show her his reflection, distorted by water droplets so that he resembled a macabre clown in a carnival mirror. The little gasp and startled expression on her face were just as satisfying as any murder he'd committed recently.

She managed to put the dish back in the sink without dropping it before slowly turning around to face him. "Michael?"

He didn't respond.

"What do you want?"

He remained unresponsive, a silent, enigmatic ghost.

"Is something wrong with Jamie?"

Her rapid breathing and tense posture betrayed her increasing nervousness. She'd tried to act tough and brave around him before - though he certainly hadn't missed seeing the glimmer of fear in her yes during their last encounter - and so Michael was curious to see just how far he could push her until she snapped. Everyone has a breaking point.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she nearly shouted at him. "Damnit, I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want! Write it down! Draw on the walls. Play charades! Do SOMETHING!"

Fear and frustration were becoming evident in her every move. Inspiring fear in people had always been a source of pleasure for him, and since the only person Michael didn't want to frighten was tucked away in her bedroom upstairs, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Her face grew hot and flushed. For several more minutes, she just stood there, then the girl did something that surprised him. Turning around, she plunged her hands back into the sink, submerging her arms up to the elbows in dishwater, and resumed washing the dishes. Her back was to him now, and he got the distinct impression she was trying to ignore him.

He_ hated_ being ignored!

Several minutes passed before either one of them made a move.

Finally, the girl spoke, still with her back to him.

"His name was Brady."

Michael blinked. If she thought that name would mean something to him, it didn't. He sent her a blank stare.

"He was the boy you killed on the stairs at the sheriff's house. Jamie said you drew a picture of him."

Oh, now he remembered. The one who'd been so woefully inept with his shotgun. Michael thought he'd been extremely generous, giving the clumsy dolt plenty of time to run by slow walking up the stairs. The fool stood his ground, however, and so had paid the price. Yes, he'd drawn a picture of the boy to show Jamie what a good artist he was but what did that have to do with anything?

Now Rachel's voice took on a definite angry tone. She scrubbed at the dishes with unnecessary force.

"And the girl you ran through with the shotgun was named Kelly. She was Sheriff Meeker's daughter!"

_The sheriff's daughter? _Beneath the mask Michael's eyebrows raised. This was the most alarming thing she'd said so far. It wasn't that he regretted killing Kelly Meeker - he'd had to do it to keep her from running off and warning the rest of the house - but it was generally not a wise move to make an enemy of someone with manpower and weaponry at their disposal. He'd killed the daughter of the previous sheriff back in '78, and afterward spent the remainder of that night getting hit by bullets, among other things.

Enough was enough. Michael was about to leave when Rachel spun around so fast water sloshed over the edge of the sink and a few drops splashed up to land on his jumpsuit. He read wild fury in her eyes, not the fear he was hoping for

"Why did you have to kill people? You could've just asked! If all you wanted was to meet Jamie, to get to know her, you could've just asked!"

Was she kidding? Ask who? No one would've allowed him to meet his new niece even if he'd asked nicely, pretty please with sugar on top. Never mind the fact that he hadn't spoken to anyone in years. He wasn't even sure if he still could.

A woman cowering before him was one thing. A woman shouting and screaming at him was another. He needed to get away from her before his tenuous grip on control slipped.

"I don't know what Jamie sees in you!"

That did it. Rage overpowered logic and left it crying in a bloody heap as he lunged for the girl, grabbing her by the collar of her sweater and slamming her up against the refrigerator. His grip around her windpipe tightened. So intent was he on strangling her that he failed to notice it when she shifted her weight and brought her knee up and rammed it hard into the magic spot between his legs.

Michael prided himself on being able to take a lot of punishment. He could shrug off bullets like B.B's. Getting stabbed was annoying but rarely put him out of action for more than a few minutes. Even being engulfed in flames from an explosion - though it had damaged him so badly that after spending ten years in a coma he still wasn't fully recovered - still hadn't been enough to kill him in the end. (Or Loomis, for that matter, a fact that Michael found extremely irritating, since the doctor was the one who'd caused the explosion in the first place.) Taking all that into consideration, getting kicked in the groin by a struggling girl would be the last thing in the world that would manage to take him down.

But it still _**HURT LIKE HELL!**_

The pain, however unpleasant, did do one positive thing. It shocked Michael out of the murderous frenzy he'd been in earlier. He'd promised his niece that he wouldn't harm Rachel. And while breaking that promise grew more tempting with each throbbing, agony-filled second, he doubted he possessed the mental stability to deal with the crying, screaming tantrum that would ensue.

He let her go and backed away, noticing with renewed pride that his legs only slightly shook from what she'd done to him. Rachel slumped up against the refrigerator, rubbing at her sore neck. Not dead

But she _would_ pay for this, though. Somehow.

"Are you guys okay?"

The killer and his would-be victim turned to see Jamie, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen wearing a cute pink nightie along with a concerned look on her face. She studied Rachel, who still rubbed at her throat, and her uncle, whose knees wobbled ever so slightly.

"Just great," Rachel managed to croak. "Go back to bed."

**[O]**

Commentary: This chapter sort of evolved in bits and pieces and ultimately couldn't decide whether it wanted to be tense, serious, or funny so I guess it ended up being a little of everything. The scene where Michael comes out of the closet behind Rachel is a not-so-subtle rewrite of her death scene in H5. Having Michael grab the thermometer out of her hand seemed a great way to show his protectiveness of Jamie while simultaneously ticking Rachel off. t don't know exactly what their relationship will turn into, but for right now it's fun just coming up with new ways for them to irritate each other! I tried to show some of the conflicted feelings going through Jamie's head. The stuff about her and Michael painting seemed appropriate, since Michael has an artistic side to him in both the original films and the remakes. The groin attack. If Laurie could get away with it in H20, then Rachel ought to have her turn. Seemed a hilarious way to end the chapter and I'm sure Rachel found it immensely gratifying, though she'd better watch out in future chapters. When Michael Myers vows to get revenge, you can be damn sure he means it!

Oh, and the half-human, half-cat action figures Michael finds in Jamie's room were...*drumroll*...Thundercats! Jamie grew up in the eighties after all, and what kid back then didn't own a few toys from that show! THUNDERCATS ROAR!


	7. Trust Issues

**Title:** What He Wants

**Rating**: T to be safe.

**Summary:** When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters in this story. I write it for my own entertainment and make no money off it whatsoever.

Chapter Seven

**Ripley:**___I'm not gonna leave you, Newt. I mean that. That's a promise._

**Newt:**_ You promise?_

**Ripley:** _I cross my heart._

**Newt:** _And hope to die?_

**Ripley:** _And hope to die. _

-ALIENS

**Chapter Seven**

**{O}**

The tall form of Michael Myers stood among the darkened trees a safe distance away from the Carruthers house. Branches creaked and settled around him, gently rocked by cold night breezes. The wind had no effect on him, for at that moment he was unmovable and silent as a boulder. Despite his calm appearance, Michael felt as though his whole body was thrumming like a steel cable drawn too tight and ready to snap, as his intense stare focused on a single point of light within an upstairs window of the house. Waiting, with ever-thinning patience, for the tiny occupant of that room to appear, to catch a glimpse of the little girl he'd adopted Halloween night. The girl who was currently living with a family that did not include him.

Another day gone by and Jamie still hadn't returned to Lampkin Lane. He was growing impatient, confused and, though he would never admit it to anyone capable of breathing, a little frightened.

_What if she doesn't want to come back to me?_

Michael knew she wasn't sick anymore. All day long, he'd kept a vigil on the house, watching discreetly through windows. Catching quick, shutterclick flashes of Jamie and Rachel. Jamie talking on the couch with Rachel. Jamie watching television with Rachel. Jamie laughing and smiling with damned Rachel! The same witch whose undisguised hatred for him rendered it necessary to leave his niece and escape from the house altogether, otherwise the need to shut Rachel up would've resulted in his knife seeking out and becoming intimately acquainted with her heart. A delicious death that would've made his whole day but would also have gotten him in trouble with the HPD and, more importantly, with Jamie. Bitterness, hot and black, soaked into his heart and made his chest feel tight as he remembered the last thing Rachel said to him in the kitchen. I don't know what she sees in you.

Movement from inside the room jolted Michael's attention out of his inner turmoil and back to the upstairs window. Through the curtains, he could see Jamie sitting on the edge of her bed dangling her legs over the side. Her white, frilly pajamas seemed to reflect whatever light fell upon them so that she glowed brighter than anything else in the room. She seemed to be entirely focused on her closed bedroom door and Michael considered how easy it would be to climb up to the window, smash the glass, reach through, and drag Jamie out. He'd half made up his mind to do just that when the bedroom door opened and a woman he'd never seen before walked in. She wore a white terrycloth bathrobe and slippers, with her wet hair pulled up in a bun, obviously having just come from the shower. For a split second her face was visible to him, and Michael picked out enough familiar details to be certain this was Rachel's mother, which meant she was Jamie's foster mother. Michael felt himself go cold, a sensation that had nothing to do with the biting wind.

The woman who presumed to be caretaker to his niece sat down on the bed next to her adopted daughter. She took his niece's hand in hers and Michael clenched his jaw as intense jealousy and resentment tore through him. They spoke too softly for him to hear but it was obvious the two of them were having an intimate conversation, the sort of just-you-and-me talk that closely bonded parents have with their kids. His mother and Judith had several of them, heartfelt conversations that so often ended with Judith shouting or crying. But the soft look in the older woman's eyes told him that this stranger cared deeply for Jamie. And Jamie must care deeply for her in return, else why hold her hand like that? Michael felt helpless, like a fly whose vital essences were being sucked dry by a hungry spider, as his niece's love was stolen from him. And when he saw his precious niece throw her arms around her foster mother in a fierce hug, the seething cauldron of dark emotions in him came to a head. He wanted to barge in there and slit that woman's throat! He wanted to kill anything that moved in that house, then drag Jamie back to Lampkin Lane and never ever let her leave his side again! He wanted...! He wanted...!

Michael felt his whole body go limp as all the jealousy and rage drained out of him, to be replaced by soul-crushing weariness. His head sagged, drooping lower and lower as bleak realization hit him.

He needed Jamie more than she needed him.

It was foreign to him, the feeling of needing someone in his life, but there it was. His shy, kind little niece had won him over completely. Her presence cleared his head, calmed his rage, and kept him out of the hellish void he'd been locked in for so long. She gave him everything and he gave her...what? He understood, logically, that he had nothing substantial to offer her and so she was much better off with people who had the means to give her what she wanted. There were no benefits to living with a man as freakish and abnormal as he was. Plus, there were those times he'd frightened her, not intentionally but still it was enough to make her cower, or cry, or become tongue-tied when she tried to speak to him. If Jamie chose to stay with her foster family, then it was because he'd failed to make her see him as anything other than a monster.

Being seen as a monster had never bothered him.

Until now.

Somehow, he mustered the energy to make the long trudge back to his dark, empty home. He stayed in the shadows out of habit, but didn't really care if he was seen or not, so wrapped up was he in trying to understand this unpleasant new emotion he was experiencing. It took a while, but as he neared the front porch of his house he finally managed to put a name on it. For the first time in his life, he was feeling ashamed of himself.

{O}

Michael tried not to think as he stepped inside his house. He tried not to think as he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. if he thought about anything at all right now, something ugly might happen.

Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Jamie. The walls were plastered with crayon drawings held in place by bits of tape; most she'd done herself, others with his help. Jamie's contributions were bright and cheery, full of primary colors. At first the garish things had annoyed him to no end. He'd confronted her about it by ripping an eyewatering display of rainbows and kittens off the living room wall and thrusting it in her face. She'd explained timidly that she was trying to decorate the house. He'd given in, because it gave her something to do and doing things seemed to make her happy. The day she'd brought home a set of paints from school had been the day his will broke completely and he'd found himself coated up to the elbows in various colored substances. To his surprise, he'd actually enjoyed this form of self-expression, though his creations were a bit more...interesting than Jamie's.

He shut his eyes, trying not to think, not to feel. Moving like a zombie, he found himself ascending the staircase to the second floor. Candles still burned up here, but he didn't need light to find the room he wanted. The room down on the end. The room with the rocking chair.

It had been Laurie's nursery. He could still see his mother sitting in the rocker next to the crib, humming to herself as she held his infant sister in her lap. If he breathed in deep enough, he thought he could still detect a faint scent of baby powder. Laurie's crib had long since disappeared, most likely sold or destroyed, but the rocking chair still claimed its old spot in the room, dusty and forlorn now that his mother was gone. He'd brought Jamie here the first night they'd been together because he'd thought she might feel safe there. And he'd been right. She'd calmed down considerably once she'd figured out he wasn't planning to kill her, even snuggled up to him a bit. He remembered how content and peaceful holding her had made him feel. Until Loomis had shown up.

With a sad sigh, Michael collapsed into the rocker, wrapped his arms around his middle, and set the chair in motion, rocking back and forth in a pitiful attempt to soothe himself.

"You should've known it would never work."

A sharp jolt like icewater crawling down his spine filled him at the sound of the voice. That oh so familiar voice. He refused to look up and acknowledge it.

"I'm surprised you actually made the attempt, but we both knew it had to end this way. You will always be alone."

Appearing unfazed, Michael waited several seconds before giving the bastard any sign he was listening. Then, very slowly, like a man being roused from deep sleep, Michael raised his head. His dark, brooding stare locked with the pale blue eyes of Sam Loomis standing just a few feet away from him. His stout form blocked the doorway, making escape impossible. Michael narrowed his eyes as the old psychiatrist reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, making a bright yellow flame dance merrily on its tip.

The doctor continued taunting his former patient in an idle, almost conversational tone. "There is nothing more for you, Michael. No one will ever accept you the way you are. Not even an innocent child." He began flicking the cigarette lighter on and off, on and off. Michael felt his contempt for his long-time doctor reach an all new high. Had the fool come here just to gloat over his current state? He found his eyes drawn to the miniature flame in Loomis's hand, feeling his gorge rise as he remembered the searing agony of nearly being burnt alive.

Relentless, Loomis smiled kindly as he twisted the knife even further. "She doesn't want you, Michael. Even if you'd do anything for her, be anything for her. Just so she'd stay with you. It's quite sad, really."

Michael was up and out of the rocking chair before the last syllable left Loomis's mouth. There was nothing in his field of vision but red. He wasn't sure how it got there, but his butcher knife was suddenly in his hand and he was raising it to slash, maim, hurt the old man very badly. To silence him once and for all.

He brought it down...

...and felt it pass through empty air.

But Loomis was still there, now with a malicious smirk on his face.

Alarmed, Michael backed away from Loomis, who had taken on the faintly transparent quality of a ghost. _Hallucination_, his mind screamed at him._ I'm hallucinating. _This used to happen to him off and on throughout his fifteen year confinement at Smiths Grove, but usually it was apparitions of Judith who came to torment him. He clenched his fists hard, digging his nails in so that blood-beads dotted his palms, but Hallucination-Loomis wasn't going anywhere.

"You're evil, Michael. Your own parents were afraid of you."

Michael tilted his head, thinking this might be a lie, but he wasn't sure. Maybe they had been. Memories from those days were few and far between but one thing he was certain of was that he hadn't been a completely normal child.

"You were never cut out to be an uncle or a brother. Any role other than a killer doesn't suit you at all." Loomis flicked the lighter inches from Michael's face. Even though it was a conjuration of his own mind, Michael swore he could feel blistering heat cracking his skin. Loomis raised his eyebrows, as calm and reasonable as ever. "Kill again, Michael!"

Michael blinked, stunned to hear his doctor actually encouraging him to murder someone, even if it wasn't real. He gripped the sides of his head, feeling his skull caving in on itself. He wanted to give in, to hunt down a pretty teenage girl, plant his knife in her heart, and watch the life leave her eyes as she died. Maybe he'd start with Rachel Carruthers. Yes. He'd punish Jamie for leaving him. No, he wouldn't, he couldn't, no, no, no...!

:Uncle?"

Sucking in a deep, rasping breath, Michael forced his gritty eyes open, Standing in the doorway, visible beyond the Loomis-hallucination, and watching him with very wide brown eyes was his niece. With one small fist she held together the ends of a fluffy white blanket draped over her shoulders. She looked startled, a little scared, and took a small step backwards. "Are you okay?"

The Loomis-hallucination grew thinner, within a few seconds vanished entirely, scowling in disappointment. Only Jamie stood before him now, and he snatched her up roughly, needing to convince himself she was real. Her heartbeat skittered in her chest, a little too fast but strong and solid. Supporting her in one arm, he used the thumb of his free hand to brush a tendril of chestnut hair out of her eyes. Laying her head on his shoulder, the little girl wrapped her arms around his neck and met his dark stare, sensing the traces of madness now slowly leaving him. "What's wrong?"

For an answer, he marched over to the rocking chair and sat down with her in his lap. Her gaze never left his as she snuggled against him. In one of her typical efforts to fill up the silence between them, Jamie started to babble. "I'm sorry it took so long. I had to wait for Rachel to drop me off and my stepmom wanted to see me before I left and..." Her flustered explanations trailed off as comprehension dawned in her eyes. "You didn't think I'd come back?"

Michael shook his head. He stroked his niece's hair, aware that his fingers trembled just a tiny bit but unable to stop them.

Jamie actually looked hurt. Her bottom lip jutted out in an adorable pout. "But I said I would, didn't I? You didn't believe me?"

Michael answered her by way of a long, deep sigh that blended all his weariness, relief, and happiness in one stream of air. He continued to rock her, gently, reliving the first night he'd done this for her, strengthening their bond. He'd never felt close to anyone before now and it was new and unfamiliar territory for him. Evidently, he needed to work on his trust issues.

**{O}**

**Authors Notes**: First off, let me just say I'M SORRY! Keeping you guys waiting this long for an update was not nice and I really can't think of a good excuse so I'm not gonna try. Anyway, I had to go back and reread the last chapter to remember what I wrote before so if you spot any goofs in continuity, lemme know. I'm still in the process of figuring out what the actual plot of this thing is supposed to be. lol Michael is such a woobie in this chapter. I figured that if Jamie left him the depression would come first, then the murdering rampage. Fortunately, she came back before it got to that point.

Does anyone think I should stop putting quotes at the beginning of the chapters? I got the idea from Vaero's TF Juxtaposition Saga (and if you haven't read it then stop reading my stuff and go read hers, it's amazing.). I like the quotes but if the majority of you find them annoying let me know. I aim to please.

And I just want to make this 100% percent clear so there is no doubt in anyone's mind. Michael and Jamie are NOT in any kind of sexual relationship. Michael wants her love because she keeps him grounded in reality and provides an incentive for him to at least try to be normal. She is his morality pet, not his sub. That is all.


End file.
